Equanimity

 
             

   
 
 

Thursday, December 09, 2004

 
Back in my infancy when I was the editor of the Poetry Project Newsletter, one bit of the nonsense I published referred to "language poet Jackson Mac Low." I got a phone call very shortly afterwards from Jackson, who kindly but firmly let me know that he was many things but language poet was a thing too far.

(I think he was saying that the rule I'd learned -- a language poet is anyone who's accused of being one -- did not necessarily apply avant la lettre. An aside: a few years earlier I'd asked Kenneth whether Ted Berrigan's Sonnets weren't "language poetry" -- Kenneth winced as if I'd bitten his leg, and said the one word "Collage.")

I loved to write down random words at Jackson's readings to see how often my writing would coincide with his speaking. What makes the loss of Jackson real to me is to know that I will never see him pronounce the word carborundum again. Sometimes at his readings I had the strong feeling that he needed to be chased with a feather duster. Mainly though, hearing him was to be aware of his genuine love of words themselves. His essay (in Pieces o' Six?) on the history and correct usage of the phrase fuckin' A, the light poems, any of the Twenties or Forties, really -- are all part of my imaginary anthology.

He made the unpredictable memorable.


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I'm Jordan Davis.
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