Kenneth Koch

Kenneth Koch turned out to be a tricky one. The 5 poems Paul Hoover includes in the Anthology showcase two very different kinds of poetry. On the one hand there is Koch the very comical, surreal, lyrical poet, the poet the Newsweek once called “the funniest serious poet we have”. It is non-narrative poetry with a great love for the sound and texture of words, very artful and yet seemingly lighthearted. On the other side there is Koch as a poet of long, much simpler, almost narrative pieces full of autobiographical references and everyday life.

Hoover claims, this change in Hoover’s style is due to “three influences: falling in love and getting married; the counsel of his friend Frank O’Hara, who praised modesty and directness in art; and seeing a production of Peter Pan, the simplicity and even ‘dumbness’ of which he admired.”

Although I found both the early and the later pieces in the Anthology very powerful, I was struggling with finding an adequate way of responding. Having no talent for comic text I found myself drawn more to Koch’s ‘narrative’ poems. The following piece is a response to With Janice. It was created with a particular constraint to guide my writing. I adopted the first word of every line of his poem, writing a poem of identical line number and with the same line beginnings. I have to admit I am not good with long poems, so this one really was a challenge for me. Read it below.

More about Kenneth Koch:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/kenneth-koch

http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/kenneth-koch

 ~-~

With Words

( A Variation On A Vertical Line By Kenneth Koch )

The threatening silence of the

White page as if it

Were

Hiding blank fear

Or the bloody

Hardnesses of sans serif truths

( Earlier necessary for brilliancy like a diamond-tip saw blade )

At which point I always hesitate                leaving watery ink stains

Knowing that little can be said at all about these things and how they

Were or came to be .

It’s hard to remember past the

Magna cum laude which

Was

Rushing in our veins then   & how

Things seemed to take on the magical form of possibility

Or at least that’s what we thought while

Pottering about cold & draughty single-glassed flats in the City

Of stock market dreams .

I often

Sat alone with my guardian & paper cup steaming against East End shop fronts

 ( It’s something reasonably popular with all of us   as if we were terriers & each of them a

Tree  or a lamp post or something )

While desperation was greasy   gathering like the stale bottom of

A pint of cheap cider in our after-

Noons   brim-full with frothed content  creamily engaging 

Drinking handsomely crafted artisan brew .

A bohemian sepia filter frame which   you told me

Has to eventually fall when the blutack [tm] dries up

In the hot air .

A romance suffering from the

Closer proximity of keys than locks  or the swipe

Of a thumb on

My image .  We were

Having difficulties to connect . Everything was open .

As you

And I gathered all of our O’Hara and Koch

And my Whitman and your Bukowski and my

Stein and your fucking R.D. Laing .

“ So right   you know   so right  … ”

To what degree only you could tell and certainly weren’t sharing any

Of it   with me .

These things affected both of us but

The uncertainty      we told ourselves   was part of the thrill    part of the triumph

To go for it     all

Or nothing

As simple as that

And never to question .   It

Was wearing thin .    And who

Will wait that long out in the freezing Brick Lane lines

Of midnight misery anyway with little hope for

Soap or paper towels or even a bloody loo seat .

We watched it happen .

It happened and we swallowed it

Down .

A straw or one of those ridiculous little parasols    pink

And beats too heavy with the aspirin taste

Was all anyone got

Was all anyone could wish for and still we went   like it meant anything .

The sun was coming up woozily . Clouds

Were their natural selves like no one else .

Or so it seemed as I envied them

Circling around warehouses barefoot

On sticky tar . 

That was before we traded words

For ebony    shiny off-white morals

But you said

“ Character matters   & to

Know one’s weaknesses is to know

Delight . “

Of course that was purpose-built redbrick a long way from

Harvard or Oxbridge or just Tottenham Court Road .

( Against which there is nothing to say whatsoever

You have to start somewhere    even on the N38 )

Things seemed to develop in certain ways irregardlessly

And we held hands & you held me & I licked & sucked

Kneeling or lying in the dry grass in Victoria Park .

It rained a lot the following autumn & you went away

To Berlin . Paris seemed

Like nothing but a silly idea .    There

Are gaps between words sometimes & people . My lines weren’t

Going anywhere .

The bright blue light kept me awake at night

Just long enough to form

A thought & see my scrambling for paper .

You laughed sometimes at my absurdities . The smudging and

Spilling of precious ink .   But

Those were really just minor

Because major is reserved for the times when exhaustion is

Surpassing the cynic glee of shopping centres & plastic

Blossoms take on a dusty charm .

In any case we were drifting in somewhat different directions .

I still went for walks down the canal with my headphones on

( As privacy is a matter of determination & insulation in this city ) &

Then I went into the marshes

With a pencil in my pocket   like you told me

And blank sheets of paper tucked into my jeans .

Out there the sky was bigger than ever before &

For a while blue was a good thing & so

Were foxes & crows    & I cared little about their meaning .

The magpie sat on my window sill for a fortnight & we had some fun . But

As the sting of the burned rubber smell was getting heavy

We sought shelter from the gathering clouds . It was

On a hot summer day when all the shops closed early   shutters down

It was a storm of anger coming    a tide of rage

And fury breaking through high street window panes .

The city was shivering & it felt for the first time like

Maybe things were going to change    maybe things were going to develop

In some way & move from now into the future    like you &

I   I hoped but the telly said they were just stealing trainers    your hand on my

Breast that night was chafing   your grip was too tight    I kept my

Eyes closed & left

While the shower was still running .

Beyond that point things just got complicated

Or I just couldn’t find the right words to put in the right order for you

I kept up my routine like everyone said I should

Hot baths & such    which I never cared for    ( never really liked )   but you got to not

Let yourself down etc.   like it’s anyone’s

Business what height I am

And if deep sea diving would be the only truly appropriate response

To all of this .

In retrospect the

Air then seems always heavy with the smog & anxiety

( To remember    it seems    is really just another silly magic trick    the one

With the rabbit     only slightly adapted   like you could cramp fricking

Dinosaurs into an old battered hat )

All the vague messages

Of little content     of few character   sent past 11

Pm    a distant

Life seeped through cold LED glow    . . .

Of course you didn’t mean it like the way I read it .      Rush hour was taking a

Bite out of my sanity . Squashed against

The transparent divider    in the entrance area     between Kings Cross & Green Park

It was getting more & more difficult to focus

On the things which were really important .      Name two .

You called on the weekend & we talked again    it was easy

For you to talk like that 

From a distance words were

Simply easier    you said .   & I laughed uncertainly .  

“always is a tragedy not a love story “ you said

( Leonardo DiCaprio made a much better Romeo for me )      my

Absent -minded self slipped once or twice mostly

In the bedroom    the

Calm can always be found

Where the wild parties reel

In the morning dew .      In  the

Corridor down to the dancefloor the

Girls were bathing their faces in blue

And white .    My mascara seemed insignificant    dirty tiles transformed

Into red carpet dreams   lashes flashes hashtags & tan

“ How many

Messages did he sent you

In the last 2 hours

And how many did you send him

It’s all about who’s got the upper hand 

Why would you show him that you like him ?   you are

Wrecking your chances    do you want him to think of you

As a slag ?    “

The rules of the silly game everyone seemed to playing      The cool colour of my lipstick

Something  to hold on to as the night drew to a start .       “ How

Much to get me home from here ? “

I groped for my dancing shoes in the pitch black of the satin carpet   hesitating a

Moment on

The

Matted surface of

The brink .     I came home that morning

In my little dress & someone else’s trousers     Nothing is

Easily done in the city      everything takes twice as much as we can give .

Almost nothing can be said about any of this      apart from    you were my

Inspiration     as much as

I seemed to be yours  .     We

Scurried through each other’s lives in a way     vermin behaviour

The gnawing & scratching    the teeth marks in every bloody thing .   I stayed

Because you were staying .     Every word had

A meaning & we knew

Exactly what any of it meant .

But

Eventually is eventually and

A story is a story

By the end of it you

Look at the words & you

Will find not a single one you recognise .   They all shift   they all disappear into

The heartbeats   racing

Against the steady walker from

School to college to job    to marriage to mortgage to morgue    it

Flows & with it  it pulls them . My words &

I  miles apart . I

Meet them occasionally on the

Final days of spring time . We don’t talk much now

Except

When I speak of you .