A note on: Stephen Spender Prize - reading poems in German and Spanish

meise

meine klinge war einmal
ein holzlöffel
jetzt ist er eine klinge

mein unterarm ist eine klinge
die eindringt & gemächlich verharrt
unter der linken untern rippe

die freie rippe
Adams konsulat
gleich anbei
am löffel kalter
haferschleim

By Octavio Paz

By Octavio Paz

Lovely to be asked by Michael Vidon of the Stephen Spender Prize / Trust to make a video for a new series they’re running, to inspire or provoke new translations, which has me read 3 poems in languages outside of English. I am shamefully monolingual, but did my best at reading a poem of mine, a poem by Thomas Bernhard and a poem by Octavio Paz.

The poem Meise was translated by Konstantin Ames and published by Karawa in Germany. It’s from my book Minimum Security Prison Dentistry.

By Thomas Bernhard

By Thomas Bernhard

A focus of this project is an exploration of sound, the sonority of the poems. I have long curated events where poets have read in languages other than English, in England, and offered them the choice to read without translations if they wished. This is my preference. For the live experience of the sound over the cognitive pursuit of semantic meaning, which takes from the more ephemeral and bodily listening. As such, I’ve developed a taste for listening to poems I don’t understand, and practise sound poetry a lot myself, where semantics are secondary, often. In this case I chose these poems because I felt I knew their meaning, vaguely, semantically, and I could just about pronounce them, and then I experienced their sound in the reading. There are rivers of writing on the sonority of languages expressing their character but this is of course limited, it all depends on the mouth speaking. And I took this to heart, trying hard not to overpronounce, to have an accent in German or Spanish when I haven’t really earned one. So the sound became very much an English mouth making sounds alien to it. Duller, dumber, than the corresponding sounds I could imagine from the page. The Paz poem has speed I think, faster sound, and the Bernhard more depth. But this is subjective, and the joy of trying to read that which I know I might be deaf to.

A note on : Timelapse at Kielder Forest

Quite remarkable to have a duet of poems now nailed into David Rickard’s sculpture, Timelapse, on display in Kielder Forest, overlooking a Lake. David’s brilliant artwork will sit on permanent display and my poems, spelt out with copper nails, will alter in appearance as time ebbs. David was very generous to allow me to be part of this commission, it’s our third collaboration, and we spent a good year meeting and discussing the idea and project. I wrote a series of texts, poems, about time, fundamentally and with David’s help, they were revised and edited into a pair. One is above, as people walk into the sculpture, and one below, and they respond to that physical, material reality, as well as to each other. http://www.david-rickard.net/news.html Why not go to Kielder forest just to read my poems?

From the Kielder website kielderartandarchitecture.com/art-architecture/timelapse.html London-based sculptor David Rickard's new sculpture is now a feature of the Lakeside Way on the south side of the Bull Crag peninsula. 'Timelapse' is a structure that invites visitors to take in the view, and while there, ponder the slippery nature of time passing. In describing his proposal the artist says: 'The sculpture ‘Timelapse’ arrives from the underlying materials that define Kielder Water & Forest Park; timber and time. With trees typically growing in Kielder Forest for several decades before harvest the forest itself reflects various timespans through the scale of the trees in different plantations. This layering of time in the landscape is also present within the growth rings buried within the timber of individual trees. Once trees are felled, time continues to govern the production of timber as a period of seasoning or drying is required before it can be put to use. A process often fast-forwarded with kiln drying, but traditionally taking several months or even years with the wood carefully stacked to allow air circulation. As visitors approach the sculpture ‘time-lapse’ their first impression might be of a large stack of timber drying within the heart of the forest. Harvested at Kielder, this neat mass of timber embraces the materiality of the forest whilst also forming a minimal sculpture in juxtaposition to the surrrounding landscape.'

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A note on : EPF video-poems and Versopolis Festival of Hope

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Versopolis have launched a worldwide online festival, bringing together content from institutions all over the shop, and have included the European Poetry Festival video poems in the program. More of the Versopolis initiative here https://www.versopolis.com/festival-of-hope There are tons of goods at this link, over 40 festivals with readings, projects, archives.

Our EPF contribution was the kinetic poems i asked the poets who were supposed to turn up in London in april to send me! To whet appetites before we do it proper in October. This currently up to 14 new pieces of work and all are watch a watch, they are proper great https://www.europeanpoetryfestival.com/videopoems

The last 8 of these video poems have been published on 3am magazine too https://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/european-poetry-festival-video-poems-part-two/

Published : Animal Drums on Hotel Magazine and 3am

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animal drums

on Hotel Magazine, it’s a sad filmmmmm

A beautifully curated page of Animal Drums material on Hotel Magazine, with a small intro to the film, after its first screening at the whitechapel gallery, and a poem from the film, and Iain Sinclair’s poem responding to the film https://partisanhotel.co.uk/Animal-Drums

If you’re fortunate enough to have perceptive friends, whom, deep down, don’t wish you disappointment, then they’ll likely tell you, cautiously, what your work is about. Just as a good friend will tell you, you can’t keep a wild animal in a small London flat and then be surprised when it bites you.

My friend Camille Brooks has been a film projectionist in London cinemas for three decades. He’s seen a lot of films. He told me The Animal Drums is about the uncanny sensation of being in a part of London where you once were for the first time, and realising, in that moment of memory, not that things have changed, for London has never not changed, but whether actually it is the same place. These are different sensations. When you revisit your childhood home, yes, everything is smaller than you remember, and experiences, strangely of course, can lay themselves around you like tracing paper. But in London, to be by the grand union canal out past Willesden Junction, where I first was in the city over a decade ago, and where we shot so much of the film, is to arrive at a place that makes one feel as though one was never there at exactly the same moment of knowing you were.

The film is about development, sure, but not capital. It’s too ludic for that. It’s about people being squeezed, sure, but not because of greed. This is too much like a thing that everyone knows, even the greedy. The film is about the possibility of invisibility in the city. Can we still hide our weird behaviour? Our misdeeds and fetishes, and stupid hobbies like writing strange texts almost no one wants to read? It is about the beauty of a certain geographical space, so densely furrowed that it has no light left for the kind of “clarity” that produces righteousness, the pretence of entirely black and white thinking and morality, and no matter how much small clusters of human animals in London think they are on the ball, just one paper thin wall away, no one gives a shit about what they think or do.

My friend Gareth Evans said The Animal Drums is the first full length film poem he’s seen in the 21st century. He has a tendency to be too generous. But the film inevitably has a kind of abstract linguistic drive as its base. Josh Alexander and I were interested in whether film grammar is a metaphor or might be taken literally. And if it’s a poem somewhat, then it’s also a documentary, quite apparently and it’s also a narrative melodrama with found actors. It’s an attempt to use very specific technical tools, available only to the medium of film, with its manipulation of so many sensory elements, to generate something closer to what I take a poem to be.

Inevitably, watching the film for the first time on a cinema screen at Whitechapel Gallery, I realised it is about finding one’s own self-interest absurd, and how this is inescapable. That any turn to the outside will only reinforce the inside. That the harder the concrete, the softer the brain, the quick the chaos, the deeper the silence. The film pixelates my body, distorts my voice, sits me next to people I’ve met and breaks open our conversations into what they are. It evokes the small marginal shadows that seem so much more cavernous in the past and shows almost nothing in the slips of darkness. It watches wormwood scrubs, Kensal Green cemetery, new Whitechapel, an awkward performance, the India club, the catacombs of some city church you won’t know anyway. It can be such a despondent film, because it’s always sad and funny to realise how ridiculous one is. But it made me and a few other people laugh. This seems fitting, given its subject matter, that the experience of its own makers seeing it, was a slightly flat disturbance in an image no one was watching.

The film was also posted up on the 3am magazine lockdown Buzzwords series https://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/3am-in-lockdown-41-joshua-alexander-steven-j-fowler

Published : THE ANIMAL DRUMS | Watch Free Online

THE ANIMAL DRUMS | London Develops Worse

a feature length film, free to watch online www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWL7DmnW0mg Joshua Alexander and Steven J. Fowler : 2019 - 75 minutes.

Charting the particular, baffled and morbid character of English attitudes to mortality, The Animal Drums depicts the specific influence of urban space on the psyche. An attempt to create a distinctly poetic film, fusing documentary, montage and improvisation, the film explores the sad, macabre, abstract threat of a contemporary London in the grips of constant and nefarious growth. Recalling the tableu film-making of Peter Greenaway and the lyrical disjunction of Harold Pinter, the film features appearances from authors like Iain Sinclair and Stewart Home, alongside actors like Edie Deffebach and Simon Christian.

Lots more on the film can be found here www.stevenjfowler.com/animaldrums

Published: two collage poems on collagepoetry.com

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Brilliant to have two collage poems, the first I’ve published in years, on Cecil Touchon’s collagepoetry.com site, which is really the go to home for this kind of work online. I teach collage poems a lot but making these has been a new thing for me, to make rather than share, and they brutalised from an old anthology that was coming to pieces anyway.

Newsletter : some things i did when things were done

wishing everyone well, some things I did when things were done, early 2020

A note on: an interview with Rich Mix for their raised-at series

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https://richmix.org.uk/raised-rich-mix-interview-with-european-poetry-festivals-steven-fowler/

Some selected questions below, please click the link for the full interview…

In this Raised at Rich Mix interview we caught up with long-time Rich Mix collaborator Steven Fowler, who is founder and director of the European Poetry Festival.

While it’s difficult to know how to proceed in these times, if you’re turning to creative pursuits, we think Steven’s interview might help you focus your energies.

Steven is a writer, poet, performer, playwright, artist, curator (yes, he sheds some light on how he manages to juggle all of those talents at once!), and has been a part of Rich Mix’s fabric for ten years. His enthusiasm for creativity in so many forms is a good reminder that we all start somewhere with our creative practices (if we have them), and that there’s no need to be put off from trying – especially now.

If you’re yet to come across his work, use his words below as your introduction, before taking his new book I Will Show You The Life Of The Mind (on prescription drugs) for a whirl, which recently launched at Rich Mix.

RM: What motivates you each day to continue to write? Do you find yourself turning to anything specific if you’re ever feeling demotivated?

SF: My work is remarkably unpopular and uncommercial because I have worked hard to have the conditions of complete creative freedom, within reasonable limits. In this reality I am profoundly aware of how pointless my work is in all ways but for myself. I enjoy doing it, I do it for me, it’s a way of exploring existence and doing a job which isn’t depressing or dangerous. If other people get something from it, amazing! That’s magic. But a bonus, one I wouldn’t expect. I wouldn’t assume to know what makes others happy or interested. So I’ve no need to get motivated, I’m always writing because I like to do it.

RM: What’s something very few people understand about poetry (or spoken word)?

SF: Maybe that these two things are really different in my opinion. To me, poetry is rooted in the fundamentally unbelievable fact of language itself. How is it we are able to communicate through grunts and marks? And how is it we are unable to capture the sensation of feeling and thought within us in language? Wonderous and mysterious. My work is then in the tradition, from Heraclitus on, of making things more strange in poems than reality itself. Not less than daily life, but more. Paradoxically this makes some people, who consider things in their actual complexity (because existence is complex whether we want it to be or not) feel more at home.

RM: If you were living a parallel life in another universe, what different talent would you have pursued?

SF: Martial arts or maybe a military career.

RM: You work across an impressive array of art forms – how do you decide which ones to focus your time on?

SF: Acknowledging I am being really reductive, I use a kind of simple matrix when teaching which might answer this. Method / Subject / Reason. The first is technique, which one to use, (sound, film, poem, fiction, book, live etc…) for the second one, what am I interested in, what is the thing I am making about? And third, exploring why I want to do either of those things? Somehow, instinctually, I try to find my way into the right forms for each thing I get to do. A lot of the time, happily, it’s due to the specific constraints, the context, of the publisher, venue, commission etc… Other times I feel like, say my interest in disappearing West London, is best done as a film rather than a non-fiction book.

RM: Do you see a thread that combines all of your work? An overriding purpose or mission? Or do you spend a few years immersed in a number of themes, before moving on to the next?

SF: I think about this a lot, thanks for the great question. I want to reserve the right to explore whatever I want to, whatever subject, even if its banal, alongside what others think is more ‘important’. But overall there is something underpinning everything I do. I never want to patronise people; I never want to tell them what to think and I want to embrace the actual complexity and difficulty of existing. I don’t want my work to be a shadow version of experience, a lessening of experience and ideas. I want it to know its less and then be free to be something new.

I think all art is supposed to be a place for the parts of us, of our lives and thoughts and being, which have to be suppressed in the required and sensible everyday interactions of work and relationships and friendships. It can please or challenge, that’s secondary, but for me, it should connect to that which isn’t easily knowable and maybe can’t be known. This sounds stupid I think but this is under everything I do.

This is more important than pleasing people and being popular, because that isn’t hard to do if one is cynical or if one is not thinking deeply about what it is we are all doing. Morality, for example, is very easy to peddle. It used to be the territory of religion, but seems to be in art and poetry much more now than even a few years ago.

RM: You have worked with an amazingly broad range of themes – from neuroaesthetics, mortality and linguistics to collaboration, fight sports, prisons and bears. Tell us about a topic you’d like to bring into your work in the future – what fascinates you now?

SF: I’ve just released a book about the prescription drugs epidemic and the human mind. It’s a choose your own adventure poetry fiction collection. But this book is done! I’ve got other books on the go on other things, some coming out this year, some next, working on them as we speak. A book of long poems about Apes, The Great Apes. A poetry collection on surveillance, That Which Don’t Concern You. A book of prose poems on smells and scents, The Parts of the Body That Stink. A novella on museums, as I worked in the British Museum for seven loooong years, M U E U M. A new series of publications each exploring a different poetic method – Concrete Poems, Photo Poems, Maths Poems… And in July, my next book is called Crayon Poems with Penteract press, all poems made with crayons!

A note on : EPF Video-poems editions 1-6 on 3am magazine

https://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/european-poetry-festival-video-poems-part-one/

European Poetry Festival 2020, the UK’s largest celebration of continental poetry, was postponed from April 2020 to October 2020, optimistically. In the place of 12 live events, which would’ve featured over 100 poets, created loads of brand new literary performances and collaborations, building new friendships in the sincere and genuine enthusiasm of new cross continental communities, and pushing the envelope in what is possible in live literature, the fest has commissioned new video-poems / kinetic-poems / online readings to whet appetites. Made to measure by poets across Europa who would have been attending in person, issues 1 to 6 are below, with more https://www.europeanpoetryfestival.com/videopoems

A note on : Robert Sheppard's writing on my poetics of collaboration

Robert correctly utilises a crop of this picture as a visual interpretation of the word smug. It was taken in a park in Xalapa, Mexico, in 2014. It kindles nice memories because I look like a knob because I was nervous. The brilliant photographer, C…

Robert correctly utilises a crop of this picture as a visual interpretation of the word smug. It was taken in a park in Xalapa, Mexico, in 2014. It kindles nice memories because I look like a knob because I was nervous. The brilliant photographer, Citlali Angeles, in cahoots with my Mexican translator Monserrath Perez, asked me if I wanted to go explore Xalapa. I said yes even though the festival had told us not to go into the city as it was dangerous, really high level narco violence in that state at that time, proper kidnapping rates etc… These two young women proceeded to walk me through the city and into a park miles from the hotel. It wasn’t dangerous but because I was dressed like a bright jessop and whiter than sheets, everyone was staring at me. They then posed me in the park while a crowd watched me like i was a backstreet boy. So smug looks a lot like quietly nervous.

Robert Sheppard is banging out an amazing series of critical reflections on collaboration and poetry on his blog, and the latest instalment, 10, reflects further on my Nemeses book and its articles, as a way of discussing, generously, my wider poetics of collaborations. Without being gauche, it is really uplifting to have Robert reflecting on my reflections in this way, because of the respect I have for him and his work, and its influence on me. You can read the piece here, which follows number 9 in his series, which explored the review he wrote of Nemeses for Stride magazine https://robertsheppard.blogspot.com/2020/04/robert-sheppard-thoughts-on_3.html

Excerpts below, please click on the link for the full piece.

“Nemeses carries two prose ‘explanations’, the first short and introductory, the second more reflective. The first is entitled ‘A Note on How the Collaborations have been revealed’. Unlike me, Fowler’s not wasting time interrogating the word ‘collaboration’. Which is just as well, given the range of activities that he has undertaken under its umbrella. Indeed, that is his major concern here, his worries about trying to stage on the page, not just texts, but the performances they were often written for, or out of. Remember, some of the texts are post-performance notes. This worries Fowler: he is content to offer ‘a new work, at the very least an iteration or spawn of the collaboration that inspired it’, which offers a performative and an organic metaphor for the ‘new work’. (His use of the word ‘inspired’ is a surprising choice, perhaps shorthand, but it causes problems later.) But he is worried that some might be not inspired at all; he hopes they are ‘not a shadow of that, not a dead trace’. He admits to having to omit certain live performances that won’t fit in the book. My review proves that he has produced spawns not shadows. (If you are going to mix metaphors, mince them.) 

On the other hand, he is clear his book is probably unique, with its cross-art explorations. But poetry is the starting point, he insists. In a parenthesis, he defines poetry (or the ‘language arts’) as ‘something language referent used for a primary purpose other than information or literal communication’ (a distant, clumsy relative of Wittgenstein’s comment in Zettel that a poem, while it uses the language of information, is ‘not used in the language-game of giving information’, a fragment which so energised Veronica Forrest-Thomson). But, more germane to my current theme, he talks of poetry, in these works ‘emerging with film, music, sculpture,’ etc. A formulation that might be contrasted with a sense of collaboration as ‘merging’. Emerging not merging. (p. 9) Co-emergence.

He offers one definition: ‘… collaboration is a way of learning, and a way of being a writer’. (p. 10) Learning, for the collaborators, could be positive or negative in terms of results (though all learning is arguably positive, whatever the results). As a way of being a writer, it’s a novel and learningful way of being so, guiding the emerging without merging. 

The essay at the end of the book is entitled ‘A Nemetic Poetics, or Being Happy Alone in Company’, which, in its very name, pitches challenge (Nemesis) against the creative joy of collaboration, which is necessarily communal (although Fowler himself still clearly feels solitude in that situation). This piece divides between the personal (what collaboration does for Fowler) and the textual (the nature of what is produced via the modes of collaboration employed).
 
However, he rejects the argument that writing is a particularly lonely activity. It is a cliché of the profession. (But, writing as I am at home, with Patricia downstairs drawing, and Stephen in the next room, drinking his way through the morning, I’m not lonely at all. I would hate one of those Yaddo-type weeks in solitude writing, but neither am I a café writer.) ‘Everything that requires concentration is lonely,’ states Fowler, and I think I agree. (279) But ‘The usual monoculture of poetry is a stereotype responsible for quite a good deal of bad poetry,’ by which I take him to mean that the still-prevalent idea of the solitary genius leads to a particular kind of self-based poetry, or model of poetry: ‘ “popular” poetry is now resting upon a strong biographical context…’ (279). Poetry is quicker to write than a novel (Discuss!) but that’s not the main point. ‘Poetry is lonely because of the very specific 21st century milieu. Poetry is out of these times… It is a thing without market force, which allows it to create weird contextual manipulations of what quality is’ and requires concentration (from readers and writers). (279) This is perhaps a recasting of traditional arguments about the autonomy of the art object, the kind of thing that you find in Adorno and Marcuse. it is beyond the clutch of capitalism in its unusual self-definitions of quality. This is sometimes thought of as the source of the critical function of a poem (in this case). 

But Fowler doesn’t follow this argument. Instead, he argues that ‘we are in an era when everybody’s brain is morphed by rapidity’. (279). He doesn’t bemoan this. ‘This is not necessarily a bad thing,’ (it’s just the way we are in our post-postmodernity, one might say, though Fowler, wisely, avoids this term. ‘But it is bad for good poetry,’ presumably because the morphed brains of poets are trying to work in a no-longer-sustainable solitary concentration on something with weird qualities. Fowler doesn’t recommend slowing down, on an analogy with slow food, for example. ‘The world has changed and the poem can only change so much.’ (280) There’s a minimal catch up possible on the poem’s part. 

I don’t think Fowler is arguing for a golden era when age and poem worked in harmony. Indeed, that myth of such a golden age is found throughout the history of literature. I’ve been tracking the Renaissance and now the Romantics, in my ‘English Strain’ project, and the sense of poetry’s alienation from one’s age is felt throughout, is almost a cliché. ‘The world is too much with us,’ complains Wordsworth. Poetry’s critical distance (perhaps its formal distance; see here: http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/robert-sheppard-formal-splinter.html) could be regarded as its strength, its critical function, but that isn’t a common thought, and it isn’t one entertained by Fowler. In short, whatever you do as a poet, ‘no one can care’. (280) That’s not a Sinatra-like chorus of ‘No One Cares’. No one can care – because of (let’s use Fowler’s word as shorthand) societal ‘rapidity’. Fowler surmises that this is OK, and could even be how we measure success: there’s no one here! But it’s lonely and, although academia might support one (does it?), on one hand you’re ‘unable to swallow the anti-intellectual and sentimental thrust that dominates’, but you’re ‘stuffed’. ‘What can one reasonably expect? To write difficult, strange, hermetic, coded, weird books and expect them to appeal to readers?’ (280) It’s just ‘funny’ to say so, Fowler concludes. (280) It is….”

The article continues, do visit the link for the full blast.

All of the collaboration articles by Robert can be read here https://robertsheppard.blogspot.com/2020/01/robert-sheppard-thughts-on.html

A note on : my YouTube channel, fowlerpoetry, Vice magazine

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I started my youtube channel in 2011 and it’s got over 2500 videos and its at over 300000 views, which is lovely but id run it anyway, even if it had nothing around it, because I perceive it as an archive. It has got to the point where its become too big though, and a bit unruly, with the admin around it, so this year I’ll begin taking some older videos down. Some will likely go to be archived at the National Poetry Library in London. https://www.youtube.com/user/fowlerpoetry/about

The channel was actually mentioned recently in an article in Vice magazine, which is unfortunate but it happened. Its very Vice in tone, accidentally patronising if not meta-hipster a decade out of sync, but I gave a few fake bio details so all square https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/akww7j/hidden-youtubers-vlogging-for-no-audience

Steven Fowler, 29 from Leighton Buzzard, who has over 2,000 poetry and literary videos on his channel, takes a different tack. “I don’t have any utopian goals of reaching new audiences and ‘converting’ them to weird literary performances and experimental poetry readings. But the bigger the archive has got, the more it seems people do find something in it that makes them interested – maybe.“

A note on : Robert Sheppard review Nemeses on Stride Magazine

Forming transitory but generous communities

http://stridemagazine.blogspot.com/2020/04/forming-transitory-but-generous.html This is a difficult book to review because, although it is easy to say this is a volume of collaborations by SJ Fowler and many others, it is not easy to delineate the types of collaboration involved. Anybody who has attended the hundreds of collaborative ‘Enemies’ events curated, and participated in, by Fowler wouldn’t be too surprised by this, but Nemeses is not just a selection of the experimental cabaret duos of those performances, important though they have been, but a presentation of samples of many collaborations in various media.

You will find literary collaborations of many kinds, from Oulipo experiments and ‘translations’, to ekphrasis of artworks or films, through what look like extemporised wordplay texts, to collages of found sources. There are even some lyric moments. There are co-authored proverbs, diaries and journals, micro-fictions, absurdist texts, and fake public information documents. Many are manifestly the results of dialogic to and fro responses, some even maintaining the form of letter and email exchanges. There are sketches and playlets (often for two voices and often very funny), as well as polyphonic poems for multivoiced delivery. There are speculative instructions for performances, as well as photographic and linguistic documentation of actual performances, whether for voice(s), dance and wrestling, sometimes involving visual art and/or music, and occasionally without words at all. There are visual poems exploring neurodiversity (of the variety dubbed by Fowler the poem brut). There are representations of artworks and sculptures that incorporate texts by Fowler. There are stills from films accompanied by notations of the films’ narrative or action. There are text and photographic collaborations. There are conceptual texts for and about conceptual performances. There are notes from psychogeographical dérives (with and without visual evidence). There are excerpts from book length coauthored publications, already in the public domain, alongside short one-off collaborations, seen here for the first time. There are nearly 300 pages of this.

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The collaborators are also suitably varied, as might be expected from Fowler’s often unusual pairings for the ‘Enemies’ performances. Fowler works with some elite figures, such as vocal artist Phil Minton, or novelist Iain Sinclair. There are ‘names’, such as Sandeep Parmar and James Byrne, emerging artists like Eley Williams or Ailbhe Darcy, but there are many lesser-known figures here, which suggests Fowler’s generosity, and many European authors, which underlines Fowler’s internationalism (intensified after Brexit), as well as to the non-native speakers’ willingness to risk work in the bastard language of our insular isle, for example, Ausra Kaziliunaite and Robert Prosser. Tom Jenks, Harry Man and Christodoulos Makris are frequent partners for Fowler. Luke Kennard, Camilla Nelson and John Hall are less so. In all, there are 54 collaborators (and I’ve mainly named only writers above), a promiscuous bunch.

I found the book an exhausting but exhilarating read (or ride). One of the delights of creating collaboratively is the opportunity to produce work that could not have been made in any other way, and which is not like work produced individually. Artists here vary in their abilities to ‘let go’ (Sinclair unavoidably sounds like Sinclair) but there is a general willingness to surrender to the encounter (particularly where performance is part of the works’ realisations). In a postface, Fowler quickly passes over the usual reason for collaboration as a concept: collegiate sharing disrupts the loneliness of the long-distance writer. He notes: ‘I have proofed my concept with others, forming transitory but generous communities which have supported the making of challenging and complex work, live, and it has taken me on an extraordinary personal journey.’ He admits, also, perhaps tongue-in-cheek, that the whole endeavour is ‘selfish’: ‘I have somehow mitigated defeat in my other works by constantly working with others … collaborating has left me smug’! Success has been snatched from the jaws of his collaborators. What strikes me as interesting is that there are 54 other poetics of collaboration lurking in this volume, none spelt out coherently like Fowler’s, of course, but each interacting in various ways with his. I want to leave the poetics to one side and plunge into two sample offerings, one a collaboration across media, the other what I call a ‘literary collaboration’.       

‘Beastings with Diamanda Dramm’ ends with a timeline of Fowler’s collaborations with the Dutch violinist and singer. In it, he repeats his ‘smug’ thoughts about collaboration quoted above, and accounts for their four meetings and works. Dramm seems to have set pre-existing poems by Fowler to music, although he says: ‘DD made them better by cutting them up into smaller, newer chunks and singing them’; she characterises this as ‘making a mini opera’. This work is (partly) about a killer chimp, and will be available on CD. What this book contains is three startling delay photographs of Dramm’s performance at the Bimhuis (Fowler is surprised how famous she is in the Netherlands) with Fowler’s visual poems projected against her, a barefoot figure in a long red dress streaked with black or blue forms, vertical tendrils. It also contains a couple of texts, though it is difficult to see where they fit in with the timeline. The second is a long processual piece, ‘A Clever Trick Memorising This You Played’, which begins: ‘your words sound better when my words are put through your words’. This suggests the piece was narrated or sung by Dramm from memory and that it describes its own verbal compositional processes. The lines metamorphose into ‘a word sounds wetter when your words are out of my words’. In the next line, ‘words’ has become ‘worms’. Eventually the text is in different territory altogether: ‘freeing tampon seems bloodier when you are tickling the red loom’. This reader is left wishing he’d been an audience member, a witness to the unfolding processual phrases, sung and set to violin playing.

In reading literary collaboration on the page, the reader often has recourse to a peculiar binary refocusing that feels like a lack of focus. That’s because the flow of the writing is continually interrupted by itself, by the switch between writers. (Imagine two drivers switching at the wheel of a truck, without stopping.) In some cases, where the dialogue is not visible, you stop trying to guess who wrote what. This, I believe, is a sign of success. It hasn’t achieved a third voice (a term which is based on identity of writers not on the identity of writing), but it could be said to leave a linguistic trail coherent enough to regard as a single discourse.

In ‘Sleeping Beauty’ with Prudence Bussey-Chamberlain (from the book House of Mouse) you can see this in action. A Disney film, not the original fairytale, is deconstructed (though deliberately misread might be a more accurate term) by the two writers, interpolating modern idioms as they go, with their ‘slept upon beauty’: …. see full review for text.

There are plenty of other pleasures in this book. SJ Fowler, never smug, despite his self-identification, has extended his own practice, to be sure, with these interactions, but it is difficult not to think that the collaborators also have extended their practices. As you read this book, you feel collaborative potentiality turning to imaginative growth. That’s a rare thing.

   © Robert Sheppard 2020

A note on : 3am magazine lockdown blog

https://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/3am-in-lockdown-11-s-j-fowler/

I don’t have a lot to say. I vacillate between sensations and have no strong opinion. It is obvious I am fortunate beyond belief or historical precedence, but I often feel this way anyway. No one, that I’ve seen, in literary terms, has anything interesting to say about it because the lockdown is happening to almost everyone. And those who are ill are best not evoked with stupid writing. Does it matter, as the internet is voluntary, that it all switches between patronising and panicking? I’m worried for some people I know. I’m alive to that and galvanised somewhat. I’m lucky. I cancelled a festival I was organising with over 100 poets who were coming to London from Spain, Italy, all over Europe. Six months dissembled in six days. But I am glad. Two of my family members are NHS or frontline etc… I like how no one has anything interesting to say and as much as I don’t like the articles on how important writing and literature is right now. But that’s just because it’s my job, those articles aren’t meant for me. There is something calming about perspective, for me at least. This is giving me that, though I’d not choose to learn now if I could.

“Another plague year would reconcile all these differences; a close conversing with death, or with diseases that threaten death, would scum off the gall from our tempers, remove the animosities among us, and bring us to see with differing eyes than those which we looked on things with before.”
– Daniel Defoe



c-word youtube comments mashup poem

let’s see what’s going on in good, sophisticated Europe
… takes you to Liverpool

then to a double room in London
a single stays in for twenty days
and goes bananas

one dude eats a bat in China, and suddenly I can’t leave my house
quote of the decade
because we won’t live to see many more quotes

Online advice;
you cannot be anything you want.
love doesn’t get the deal done.
gratitude is the only emotion that taps into a higher intelligence.
material world detaches from the spiritual.
worth comes from character.
the universe rewards authenticity.
adversity reveals character.
the new one who can pull all this off.

within the Diet Apocalypse
Expensive Shit begins to glow
like the food seen
chewing with an open mouth
despising the bbc website

“I’m not a paranoid person”
wears a Rolex in case you need to trade it for a getaway car

Published : Dostoyevsky Wannabe Cities Amsterdam anthology

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Amsterdam-Nadia-Vries/dp/1652839097 I’ve got a new short story about me walking around amsterdam with a dead leg after it was leg kicked and some poems also about the city and its inhabitants in a new anthology from Dostoyevsky Wannabe, edited by the brilliant Nadia de Vries. I am in there alongside - Lucia Dove, Helena Grande, Dominic Jaeckle, Christodoulos Makris, Divya Nadkarni. / Nadia is a really great poet and has written a proper good intro to the book too https://www.dostoyevskywannabe.com/cities/cities_amsterdam

European Poetry Festival postponed to October 2020

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Inevitable and necessary, The European Poetry Festival has been postponed until October 2020. No events will take place in April. The rescheduled festival will present our most ambitious program yet, with poets from across Europe presenting new readings, collaborations performances and publications, in multiple events, from October 6th to 18th. www.europeanpoetryfestival.com/2020

It’s strange that it took me a week to dissemble what took six months to build, plan and programme, but I don’t feel anything but grateful it can happen in October, if it can, because it’s a poetry festival and not important at all. Small thing. Everyone has been proper understanding on the move too, naturally. Well wishes to everyone.

A note on : closing Museum of Futures annual Visual Literature exhibition 2020

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A first event cancellation of the new times, the closing event of the 4th annual exhibition of visual literature had to be put off. I wandered down to the museum of futures on the exhibitions last day, after doing my last day teaching at kingston uni, to open for those picking up their work. 3 people came, from 40 or so. I sat in surbiton with friends helping me, Marcia Knight Latter and Katerina Koulouri, at a distance, then alone, for hours. I watched people go by the window, packed up the art and put it into storage. Then I put on a chimp mask and walked down to the thames holding a seagull. Strange times.

I thought maybe id not do another one of these but i think i will. The theme for 2021 will be Concrete Literature. https://www.writerscentrekingston.com/futures