Chanting in the House of Nabokov:
An Interview with Jerome (and Diane) Rothenberg in
by Philip Metres
St. Petersburg/Cyberspace, June-July 2002
Published in COMBO
I came to know of
you—as perhaps many of us have—principally through your work as an anthologist
of such visionary and wildly open anthologies as Technicians of the Sacred and Poems for the Millennium. How
did you come to poetry in the first place?
I came initially into poetry for reasons that are not all
that clear now that I try to think it through retrospectively. The trouble is that when you take a
retrospective view of the past — it may not be true but you come to believe it
anyway. So I think now that my coming
into poetry had something to do with growing up … not during the Depression so
much, though that’s part of it … but during the mid-century and the Second
World War. From where I grew up in the
States, we had a sense of the devastation, culminating, building up towards the
end of the war: the revelation of the Holocaust and then the role of the
So how did poetry
enter into the picture?
Well, retrospectively, I came to believe that poetry was
involved with a search for an alternative form of language and consciousness, a
feeling that our language both semantically and structurally and ideologically
was corrupt and implicated in the devastation that we had just come
through. You know, poetry seemed to
present a kind of alternative, and if anything, the marginalized quality of
poetry underscored that. Poetry didn’t
bring you into the mainstream, it emphasized an opposition to a mainstream with
which you didn’t feel comfortable and which you viewed with a great deal of apprehension
and even disgust.
I started writing poetry very early, at 14 or 15, immediately after the Second World War, and that’s when I began to — for reasons that I can only reconstruct in ways that I’ve already been describing — at that point I wanted to identify as a poet.
Did you have figures that you particularly admired for their ability to create an alternative consciousness?
The early great attraction was to people like Stein, Cummings, Joyce — people who made alternative languages.
Yes, quite literally, all three seemed to be making their own language.
Yes, language-makers.
Later, other poets started coming into the picture. As Americans, Pound and Williams. Of course with Pound, the political question
comes up immediately. The first writing
of mine that was published anywhere outside of a high school magazine was a
letter to the editor of a
Did you find ways of
connecting with other poets in
I began to know a few poets my own age who were also coming
into poetry, principally one who remains a very close friend, David Antin. We went to college together,
The triumph of the narcissistic project—that your experience is all you need to share with the world.
Yes, though I don’t think it’s a triumph everywhere – more
like a narrowing of the field and not the opening of possibilities of which it
might have been a part. By the middle of
the fifties, anyway, most of the people I was close to were coming out of the
traditional literary trap and were pushing into new areas – experiential for
some, linguistic and formal and performative for others. As my own writing continued, it was easier to
meet other writers, and suddenly the circle of writers became quite large. And writers, in my experience, were being
very responsive to other writers. It was
also very easy at the time to distinguish between the experimental and the
academic — that was basically, did you write by the meters, or did you write by
the new measure, freed up. If you did
the one, then you were in the one camp; if you did the other, then you were in
the other camp. Later on other
distinctions came in.
That was sort of
typified by the New American Poetry
anthology.
You know, Donald Allen, in consultation with a certain range
of poets, had been looking for poets in that period who were not writing as the
academics were but were renewing poetry, looking in particular for a new
instrument of composition, however named: Williams’ new measure, or Olson’s
projective verse, or Duncan’s open field, or Ginsberg’s bop prosody, or simply
free verse as a nice old-fashioned but then still loaded term. Except for Helen Adam, in the original Allen
anthology, the old measure doesn’t appear, so it becomes the anthology of
people doing new measure at a point when it wasn’t standard. Now, free verse is the standard, so you can’t make that easy distinction.
[Diane Rothenberg]
It was also the proliferation of easy publication,
self-publication, lots of little magazines.
The circle of poets expanded through publication, as well as through
poetry readings. And certainly for Jerry
there was a heavy emphasis on translation.
I was interested in translation from early on, and saw a connection between what I was doing as a poet and what I might be doing as a translator. Although my grasp of other languages was not terrific. I was not a polyglot, didn’t really have a command of languages outside of English, but I felt the interconnection with other poets living and dead was important, and that there were things that I’d found in other languages — French, Spanish, German — that were missing in English. So if I was drawn by the attraction of the avant-garde into a consideration of Dada poetry or Surrealist poetry, it had to come into the picture through translation. To translate a certain poet was to make a statement about poetry, in the same way that doing your own work, your own poetry, was a statement about how poetry might be done. Not necessarily a statement about how it should be done, but how it might be done.
So were you actively
translating, and trying to get this work out at the time?
My first published book was through City Lights, called New Young German Poets. It was one of those accidental things that
have sometimes come up in my life. I had
done some earlier translations, actually rhymed and metrical, of a German poet
now largely forgotten named Erich Kaestner, who wrote Emil and the Detectives, a famous children’s book. And he was, to some degree, a cabaret
performer. It may have been his
reputation as a cabaret performer that attracted Lawrence Ferlinghetti to get
in touch with me as his translator and to ask me if I would be interested in
translating and editing a book of new young German poets – an area of new
poetry that had recently been called to his attention. And when I agreed to do
that, I ended up being the first English translator of Paul Celan, Günter
Grass, Hans Magnus Enzensberger, Helmut Heissenbüttel, and others. These were all postwar poets who had already
established themselves in
Diane
Jerry and I had this little publishing company called
Hawk’s Well Press. Jerry and David
[Antin] did a translation of a small book by Martin Buber, of his stories.
Buber was known then for his I and Thou and his big collection called Tales of the Hasidim, and the book that David and I did was called Tales of Angels, Spirits and Demons, a
continuation of Buber’s literary work.
We were able to do a press of our own because there were inexpensive
means of publishing at the time – mimeograph at one end, foreign printers at
another. For ourselves, we went with the
foreign places, because the strong dollar at that time allowed for a
professional looking but very manageable publication. We printed Hawk’s Well Press in
How did you distribute
your books?
There was already a network of small bookstores throughout
the country, and the names were passed around by other poets. You would send an announcement or a sample
copy to a store and they would say “send six books on consignment” or something
like that. Or you would trot around
Diane
The economy of the whole thing was such that you didn’t
expect to get any money back. It was so
cheap to do it. It could be ninety
dollars to print a book. It was never
more than a couple hundred. And we never
did have any kind of system that worked for billing …
If you want to look into publishing from that period, there
is a book for which I wrote the introduction a couple of years ago, called A Secret Location on the Lower East Side,
tied into an exhibit at the New York Public Library on 42nd Street. It’s a documentary history of magazine and
book publication from the 1960s and 1970s.
A tremendous amount of activity on view there, though the organizers
were mostly looking at New York, and a little at San Francisco and some other
regional outposts, all samizdat work then, so to speak, and all without
government financing. At whatever point
the national financing comes in, it skews the enterprise a bit. You find that you’re publishing at the behest
of the state to which many of us were simultaneously in opposition. And because none of that can be entirely free
from censorship or at least coercion, you find yourself fighting with the
government over money rather than attending to the real work that you should be
doing. No question, though, that the
state financing made things easier.
And when did Technicians come out?
It first came out in 1968.
Before that, obviously I had been writing, publishing poetry, a few
books from small presses, including my own.
I had done a little magazine called Poems
from the Floating World, and did another magazine with David Antin called some/thing. I began to think of the magazines as a kind
of anthology – an anthologizing process – meaning that I would not only publish
absolutely new work but exemplary work that had been published before. Translation was one way of doing that. I began also to follow up an interest in what
was then called “primitive poetry,” what we spoke of for a while as the poetry
of the
I wanted to ask you about the process and your thinking
about anthologies, because what becomes immediately clear when one opens your
anthology, one feels the way in which there is a quality of openness to
it. As much as you’re doing selection,
there is also a feeling of opening doors. …
One of the things I really loved about Poems
for the Millennium, was that Eliot is mentioned, and The Waste Land is described, and then you
write that you can find the poem elsewhere.
Yes. We say that and we don’t print the poem as
such. But the true reason for that is
economic. When confronted by Faber and
Faber in
What were your models for putting together the
anthologies?
There were a couple of
anthologies that were models or paradigms.
One was Donald Allen’s New American Poetry. What that opened up was the
possibility of including both poetry and statements about poetry. So that gave me the idea of including the
poems up front and the commentaries in the back. It also raised the possibility that the
anthology — which was a form of book that I really was not crazy for except in
rare instances — that the anthology could function as a large manifesto. That it could be pointed towards opening
possibilities of poetry that had been closed before then. So the anthology as a manifesto. And second, but perhaps even more important,
the anthology as a kind of long poem.
As a big chorus almost, of different voices …
In working as a poet,
finding a space for different voices is probably at the center of what I think
I’m doing in poetry. So translations are
an arena of voicings, anthologies are an arena of voicings, found poetry and
collage are an arena of voicings. And
there are all sorts of other voices going on inside my head. When I’m feeling good about these things,
what I sense from myself, is a continuum between the poetry in the New
Directions format (where my twelfth book of poems for them is soon coming out)
— these small books of one’s own poetry — and then the large books of
anthologies and translations. Instead of seeing these as different activities,
I would like to see them as forming one large continuum. For me, that’s been a way that I could think
of myself as working out in the open, rather than in the sinkhole of cri
de coeur poetry. Although I do all sorts … I’m drawn to do all sorts of poetry.
In terms of your ideas of translation, one of the unique
things that you’re doing is incorporating the context in which these texts
would have appeared, to decenter our reading of these as simply Eliotic poems
but as actually as scripts that would somehow already incorporate that
ineffable thing that is outside of the words themselves.
Yes, with the ethnopoetic
anthologies anyway. There, where
possible, I did want to show the language part within a context of performance
and accompanying activities, with a feeling that most of the poetry came out of
that kind of multimedia work of performance and ritual and ceremony. But I couldn’t put everything into a
scenario, and the commentaries were a way of indicating how the works were
used. You know, I may have gotten
fanciful from time to time with the commentaries, a tendency to look for a good
story rather than to worry about being absolutely accurate in what I said,
though I should stress too that I wasn’t trying to be inaccurate.
Did you take any heat for that project? Did people wonder
about the ethics of dealing in otherness?
Yes, the answer is
yes. I didn’t anticipate that there
would be that sort of response from certain quarters. This was certainly not the only response to
it, but it stopped me short, and something that I had to think through, and
continue to think through to the present.
There were different
responses—issues of translation, the politics of it, the claims of
shamanism. I think Shaking the
Pumpkin generated more heat … the problematic
there was that it was moving into
The question of incorporating the performative segues into
my question about how you saw poetry being used during the Vietnam War era, as
a response to the war, as a way of speaking about the war. What sorts of things did people do with
poems, and what did you think was particularly successful?
At the beginning of the
Vietnam War, poets and other artists working from relatively marginal positions
felt themselves able, at least locally, to engage in active opposition to the
war. So by 1965, when the war was
heating up, the coffee shop reading, the art gallery, the poetry-in-the-park
kind of reading, had been going on for some years and had spread out of
Were there readings that broke down the traditional dichotomy of poet speaking and audience listening; were there situations in which that dynamic was decentered? I’m thinking of Mac Low’s “Jail Break,” and even Ginsberg’s mantras in Grant Park during the 1968 Democratic National Convention, where the texts were designed for people to speak the parts of the poems.
Mac Low would certainly
recruit people, usually other poets, to join him in certain of the performance
pieces, though in general I can’t recall him pulling people out of the
audience. But groups like The Living
Theater would go into the audience, would bring the audience into
performances. The Living Theater had a
number of other agendas besides ending the war.
They started out as an experimental repertory theater in
With the readings, the
bigger events were group readings against the war, and those seemed to be going
on everywhere. One notable one, from my
perspective, was a poetry reading in
The biggest poetry event, though, or poet-led event, was the famous raising of the Pentagon in 1967. I wasn’t there for that but I think of it largely in connection with Ed Sanders, who had edged into the musical scene with The Fugs, but was perennially and wonderfully a poet. That kind of large demonstration was a form of theater and ritual, of big-scale performance, performance art – at least it was taken for that but especially so when it involved the work of poets and artists to give it a shape and dimension.
Your reading in the Nabokov House began and ended with a sung recitation of a Native chant. Is performance, for you, a kind of ceremonial, even religious act (broadly conceived), as much as it is an aesthetic one? I am particularly thinking about how you connect your Jewish roots and experience of religious ceremony to these other traditions.
For me all poetry – maybe all art as well – has behind it a ceremonial, even religious presence, something that goes back to its beginnings and, given an awareness of those beginnings, something that persists into present day forms, which I think of and cherish as inherently secular. That anyway is my personal paradox as a poet. I think of revealed religion as inadequate, even ridiculous, in the face of this awesome and probably limitless universe that goes on for billions of years in duration and billions of light-years in space. But the language of religion and the language of poetry come together somewhere – not in the voice of institutionalized religion but, where it works, in that of mystics and shamans. I found this particularly the case for those religious forms that I’ve chronicled in the anthologies – a mine of poetry and charged and heated language. That such language – even in modes that resemble the oneiric language of surrealism or the abstract languages of zaum and dada – exists as a central value in a range of cultures or in the heterodox fringes of others, is something that I can’t easily cast aside. And I’m saying this though close friends and fellow poets – I’m thinking here of Antin and Charles Bernstein but there are others – prefer to distance themselves from any such notions of the sacred. My preference is to write as if poetry were still what Breton called it – “a sacred act” – while holding to my disbelief and my disdain for forms of religion that I find increasingly inimical and threatening in the world in which we live. It’s either a question of separating wheat from chaff or of walking through a minefield – probably a little of both.
Final question.
What projects are you working on now, and where do you see yourself in
the coming years?
When I think of what I
want to do otherwise, I find it hard to believe that I don’t have that much
time ahead of me, so I go ahead as I always have and figure I’ll get done
whatever I manage to and will let it go at that.