POET JUICE
A NEW LIVE COLLABORATION SERIES FROM
Mêlée Live
This series is named for and dedicated to the poet, Paul White, because he introduced us to a living spirit of collaboration. But also because we borrowed the term, “Poet Juice,” from him.
So what is POET JUICE?
Once in a while, we will host unannounced collaborations between one or more of our editors and some familiar poets, as well as some not so familiar poets.
Poet Juice No. 1 was a lunch hour collaboration between Johannes Göransson and Chris Pappas. The poem was composed on our Mêlée Live Facebook wall between 12:04 and 1:04 pm on January 5th, 2011. The text is considered as it was typed. Apparent typos were left in tact and incorporated as relevant pieces of the poem’s body. No time for re-vision or re-deux in a lunch-hour collaboration. The hand must write and quickly move away. You can download a pdf of Poet Juice No. 1 here: CLICK ME
Thank you to Johannes Göransson for consenting to write this poem live, a rare fearlessness. It was a very engaging hour, and a lot of fun.
This video is dedicated to the University of Arkansas students from Chris Pappas’ 2009 Intro to Poetry class who participated in the class collaboration that resulted in the “Declaration of Modes and Values” readings, some clips of which can be found in this video.
The video performance of the poem was composed entirely by Chris Pappas and does not necessarily reflect the views of Johannes Göransson on this poem.
The Editors
A translator both translates and talks about the problems in translating
A red poster both tells us who will be killed and who will do the killing
You can see all you need in the eyes, when you can see them
I can see your eyes on the walls of this and other cities
On the walls Graffiti Art lies about the language of of wall to defend them
The words are stains that come from a dazzled body
Never fight them when it’s time to go home, go home
When it’s time to use weapons, saturate the infants
A translator takes away the boys, takes away the girls the vigilante and the doctor, in mad houses, at least they know they’re mad
The translator thinks she’s a passer-by
How many people does translation of passionate conviction kill? Bomb-bomb says the one in bars to the priest and the soldier who
Came into the clinic to find the right instrument for the protest against
The angry street artist. And translates Graffiti Art does the critic to the masses, and translates God does the priest to the congregation, and translates law does the cop to the criminal, the over-employed, the angry speak of you often in their prayers
They tell me about your uniforms, the part you refuse to clean off and the part you insist on polishing with
The worn picture of your gal far from home. They tell me you could not simply write the words, I am lonely and yet struggle to seem a loner
They tell me how many hate-dances it takes to find happiness and
And how many books it takes to find truth. The truth of translation struggles to escape the art of the translator. More matter is too much art when the market dictates word choice and font more than
The bodies that accumulate in the translator’s version of the event. Those bodies exhibit a kind of happiness
You can’t see unless you see it. You can see all you need in the eyes, when you can see them. I can see your eyes on the walls of this and other cities. I can see you on the wall
Where you embody the translator’s happiness in your bleeder’s costume. I can see your eyes on
There in a mural of journalists. The Graffiti Artist made Baudelaire and the city left him on the wall unwashed and polished. To exhibit what insane eyes. The mural is a photo-script of campaign ads now, a prescription too late
For the corpses in the bedroom of the rich, but it’s not too late for the ornate anatomies the rich want for their next charade: those bodies can still be
Remembered in song. It’s not worth anything. But if I could sing to you now, though you’ve been gone, I never meant to hurt you none. And you never meant to hurt me too. But it seems that we have to kill ourselves to live on
It seems we have to abdicate
To kill ourselves or kill the king. All the kings must go, except one. The translator furious scribbles to find the sound. To know what we do though we don’t the tongues. All their afraid of is yours.
You’re the king of translators, the wound of the body, the rat of the hospital, the one person so scared of the tongue that you’ve had to invent mass graves to take its place
To take the place of family you have mad a world of too much law. A fallacy of misplaced concrete. Every year we do this. Two brothers come together to discuss the vampires and how to guide them into the light. One of us certain where the sun comes from. The other
Carrying a stake in which a poem has been inscribed
Depicted in this video: Louis Aragon; Alan Watts; The MFA School; USPOCO BOOKS; Allen Ginsberg; Poetry 3203 (2009); Kimpel Hall; Brownbear; Blackbear; us poetry company; Dedalus; Icarus; Amiria Baraka; “Who Blew Up America”; Unknown Soldiers; Death; Military Uniform; Baudelaire; City Lights Books; Jack Kerouac; San Francisco; uspoco studios; Jean-Michel Basquiat; Strawberry Fields; T. Crunk; Michael Franti; The University of Arkansas campus; Winston Churchill; Iron Maiden; “A Declaration of Modes of Values.”
Mêlée Live
A translator both translates and talks about the problems in translating
A red poster both tells us who will be killed and who will do the killingJanuary 5 at 12:04pm ·
You can see all you need in the eyes, when you can see themJanuary 5 at 12:05pm ·
I can see your eyes on the walls of this and other citiesJanuary 5 at 12:07pm ·
On the walls Graffiti Art lies about the language of of wall to defend themJanuary 5 at 12:09pm ·
The words are stains that come from a dazzled bodyJanuary 5 at 12:11pm ·
never fight them when it’s time to go home, go homeJanuary 5 at 12:12pm ·
when it’s time to use weapons, saturate the infantsJanuary 5 at 12:14pm ·
A translator takes away the boys, takes away the girls the vigilante and the doctor, in mad houses, at least they know they’re madJanuary 5 at 12:15pm ·
the translator thinks she’s a passer-byJanuary 5 at 12:16pm ·
How many people does translation of passionate conviction kill? Bomb-bomb says the one in bars to the priest and the soldier whoJanuary 5 at 12:18pm ·
came into the clinic to find the right instrument for the protest againstJanuary 5 at 12:22pm ·
the angry street artist. And translates Graffiti Art does the critic to the masses, and translates God does the priest to the congregation, and translates law does the cop to the criminal, the over-employed, the angry speak of you often in their prayersJanuary 5 at 12:23pm ·
They tell me about your uniforms, the part you refuse to clean off and the part you insist on polishing withJanuary 5 at 12:25pm ·
the worn picture of your gal far from home.They tell me you could not simply write the words, I am lonely and yet struggle to seem a lonerJanuary 5 at 12:27pm ·
They tell me how many hate-dances it takes to find happiness andJanuary 5 at 12:30pm ·
and how many books it takes to find truth. The truth of translation struggles to escape the art of the translator. More matter is too much art when the market dictates word choice and font more thanJanuary 5 at 12:31pm ·
the bodies that accumulate in the translator’s version of the event. Those bodies exhibit a kind of happinessJanuary 5 at 12:35pm ·
you can’t see unless you see it.You can see all you need in the eyes, when you can see them. I can see your eyes on the walls of this and other cities. I can see you on the wallJanuary 5 at 12:36pm ·
where you embody the translator’s happiness in your bleeder’s costume. I can see your eyes onJanuary 5 at 12:41pm ·
there in a mural of journalists. The Graffiti Artist made Baudelaire and the city left him on the wall unwashed and polished. To exhibit what insane eyes. The mural is a photo-script of campaign ads now, a prescription too lateJanuary 5 at 12:42pm ·
for the corpses in the bedroom of the rich, but it’s not too late for the ornate anatomies the rich want for their next charade: those bodies can still beJanuary 5 at 12:46pm ·
remembered in song. It’s not worth anything. But if I could sing to you now, though you’ve been gone, I never meant to hurt you none. And you never meant to hurt me too. But it seems that we have to kill ourselves to live onJanuary 5 at 12:48pm ·
It seems we have to abdicateJanuary 5 at 12:51pm ·
to kill ourselves or kill the king. All the kings must go, except one. The translator furious scribbles to find the sound. To know what we do though we don’t the tongues. All their afraid of is yours.January 5 at 12:53pm ·
You’re the king of translators, the wound of the body, the rat of the hospital, the one person so scared of the tongue that you’ve had to invent mass graves to take its placeJanuary 5 at 12:56pm ·
carrying a stake in which a poem has been inscribedJanuary 5 at 1:04pm ·
Chris PappasCPJanuary 5 at 1:05pm ·
Johannes Göransson‘s Entrance to a colonial pageant in which we all begin to intricate was recently published by Tarpaulin Sky Press. He has published three prior books of his own writings—A New Quarantine Will Take My Place, Dear Ra, Pilot (“Johann the Carousel Horse”)—and several books in translation—including, most recently, With Deer by Aase Berg, Ideals Clearance by Henry Parland and Collobert Orbital by Johan Jönson. He co-edits Action Books with Joyelle McSweeney, and co-edits the online journal Action, Yes with John Dermot Woods. He teaches at the University of Notre Dame and writes regularly on the blog www.montevidayo.com.
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