YouTube Review: Gregory Orr's nebulous mysticism of the "Beloved"
On November 10th, 2010 lyric poet Gregory Orr read a few of his poems at The Bowery Poetry Club in New York, New York. The event was organized by performance poet Taylor Mali for his series, Page Meets Stage (PMS...yikes!).
With only 614 views since its upload on March 3, 2011, Gregory Orr has yet to attract a public following equal to the praise that has been showered upon him by such distinguished organizations as the Virginia Quarterly Review (for which Orr was Poetry Editor from 1978 to 2003), National Public Radio's All Things Considered, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Hmm...
Although Orr's presence on camera is inward and flailing, he intones his lines well, coordinating stress and release appropriately (disclaimer: for the habitual user of salt crystals for deodorant, you will find Orr's swaying gesticulation highly interesting and, dare I say, captivating even).
Unfortunately, Orr sighs and moans ad nauseam about the presence of the "beloved" moving "through the world, is the world" and how it refuses to "incarnate in a final form". He also offers plenty of gratuitous, Gaia inspired references such as "birds flitting" and "you can't see it, but you can here its song" that are sure to whip hoards of aging, wiry-haired hippies into a psychic frenzy. It's not that Orr is a bad poet. In fact, he demonstrates clear command of verse, imagery, and figurative language; it's just that Orr remains an antiquated throwback to the 1960s psychedelic movement. The 21st century artist should be well beyond the simplistic notion that there exists some mystic earth-fairy to whom we must attune for spiritual salvation and guidance. In the end, Orr's poetry fails to articulate a viable and sophisticated solution other than the vacuous, feel-good New Age spiritualism he's known for dishing out.
Denise Duhamel is an accomplished poet who, in addition to being a successful teacher of creative writing and literature at the Florida International University, has seen her work published in several prestigious print and online journals and magazines. Despite all her awards, grants, and accolades, Duhamel has not achieved much success reading her poems publicly, especially those featured on YouTube.
Denise Duhamel projects an unwarranted degree of confidence during a YouTube video in which she reads one of her poems, Egg Rolls. With frizzy blonde hair and wearing a black turtleneck, Duhamel introduces her poem in a manner that should be banned from all future literary readings. Note to poets and writers, kindly spare us your tired and facetious introductions. They are almost always full of narcissistic pander and nauseating self-affirmation. It's best to reserve discussion and explanation of the work itself either inside the classroom, or after the presentation among a smaller circle of fans.
Duhamel's free-verse poem Egg Rolls provides a snapshot into Duhamel's days as a starving graduate student living in New York. It's the usual dirty realism fare of eating expired food, holding down menial jobs to make ends meet, and the aches and pains of being impoverished, hungry and full of longing. Of course, the point of the poem is that she "never [feels] so bad for herself really because she [is living and writing] in New York." Sure, why not.
Unfortunately, her work doesn't transfer as well when read. Duhamel's appearance is bland, and her overly emphasized facial gestures remind me of a fussy suburban house-marm attending a reading at a local coffee shop. Duhamel's reading quickly devolves into a droning sing-song and none of the grit and determination contained in her poem comes through. And although the structure of the poem is meant to capture the chaos and spontaneity of life in New York, Duhamel's verbal rendition presents a poem full of rambling run-ons begging for moments of pause and appropriate intonation.
As an agnostic, I can sympathize with the restless, rootless hoards trying to seek answers to all of life's existential mysteries. For many, the cold materialism of science and the peer-reviewed pondering of the academic establishment fail to offer what the fakirs and mystics of the past and the urban spiritualists of the present shamelessly and wholeheartedly pander, the satisfaction of immediate enlightenment. Kale shakes, coffee enemas, and reverberation specialists abound; three sessions of Ayurvedic yoga, two Reiki consultations, and nightly, tantric meditation promise to prevent cancer, tooth decay and the hollow ache of persistent emotional malaise. Ohm. Of course, it's easy to dismiss the intangible, spiritual peregrination of the robed, sandal-donning seer, just pucker your lips, tighten your sphincter, and roll your eyes.
Created by Kara and Hawk Jones, Kota Press publishes books, art, blogs, articles and online lectures that explore a whole host of techniques in dealing with grief. Although I was quick to dismiss most of what this site hawks, taking a moment to suspend your disbelief will engender some sympathy and understanding not only to what inspires Kara Jones, but also to recognize some of the benefits to be had for those trying to cope with loss.
Kota Press' homepage is neither the most intuitive nor the most appealing. Although offering an index of links to the left of the introductory pane, and a menu bar across the top of the page, her site takes some getting used to. Additionally, the moment you begin toggling into the depths of her site, it's easy to get lost among any number of topic destinations.
Initially, I sensed the smoldering luster of a snake oil salesperson. For a fee, of course, its 12-module online course on creative grief coaching (based in large part on the theories of Joseph Campbell, whose work has largely been popularized and proselytized by charlatans of all types) is the site's principal certificate offering, which doesn't come cheap. It's at this point I'd usually smirk, shake my head, and click away.
The site focuses on helping individuals cope with the loss of a family member or loved one. Kota Jones herself has lost three children. The question then becomes, is she truly genuine in her desire to help others through grief, or is she merely capitalizing on her past for monetary gain? To answer this question, I delved more deeply into her body of work.
I chanced and decided to spend some time on her personal blog, motherhenna.blogspot.com. Here, she provides several "Creative Prompt" videos that feature Kota "exploring grief using radical creativity." I chose this branch of Kota Press because I needed to observe the demeanor and content of the creator herself.
On video, Kota Jones has a bubbly personality and projects motherly warmth. Her face is fleshy and her curly, shoulder-length hair trembles as she enunciates and emphasizes her points. Her eyes roll in moments of searching thought, and she often exudes smiles when broaching painful subjects. One of the videos I viewed depicts Kota offering an "open invitation" for those who've recently experienced loss. She is articulate and seemingly earnest in emphasizing the importance of being open to the process of healing and emotional expression. As someone who has experienced the death of a sibling, I saw value and relevance to the emotional comfort Kota Jones offers through art, words, movement and expression.
What helped suspend my disbelief and accept Kota's expertise is the extent to which she is willing to share her past experiences. In one of her columns, she writes in great detail about the still birth of her son, and how she overcame her grief through scrap-booking.
In closing, I can't say I endorse everything Kota Press links to and suggests, and it can easily be argued that some of her techniques border on the outlandish. It's in the least a useful source for anyone looking to find ways to manage the emotional pain and trauma of loss, and engage creatively with similarly experienced individuals.
As an itinerant and amateur futurist who suffers from episodic spasms of paranoid delight when imagining the near dystopian possibilities of human existence, it is imperative I take pause and acknowledge some of the benefits of post-industrial modernity. After all, we've not yet reached that point in time when prospective parents, their bioluminescent glazed eyes scanning information projected from nano-processors embedded within the folds of their brains, discuss without moral hazard the specific traits of appearance, habit and intellect they'll instruct an obstetrician to genetically engineer for their future children.
The social practice of sharing and disseminating literary works has always been disrupted by historical events and advances in technology, the most obvious example being Gutenberg's printing press. Today, it's YouTube.
I've been slow to peruse YouTube for those video posts that demonstrate genuine artistic merit. I've never been one to ogle into the private lives of individuals sharing their first guitar strum or the aspiring pundit offering a personal rant about some celebrity or political figure. Added to these examples of quaint domestic communication, the footage, especially during the early days of YouTube, was always grainy webcam or more recently, shaky phone cam. Clearly, this is no longer the case, as the scope and range of YouTube includes high resolution live streaming video that can be utilized for a whole host of purposes.
Boasting nearly 16,000 subscribers and more than 9 million video views, SpokenVerse by Tom O'Bedlam is a YouTube channel focused on poetry readings. This is not a channel either showcasing the often exaggerated theatrics of slam poetry or the falsely intoned ramblings of novice poets as can be found in almost any local coffee shop, but Tom O'Bedlam's vocal interpretation of the classical canon of international poetry. It is his voice, and his voice alone that can be heard reading any number of poems.
Tom O'Bedlam is an excellent reader, his voice is at once grave and gruff, and lends itself particularly well to older poetry. I was instantly captivated by his reading of John Keats' "When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be." What I appreciate most is O'Bedlam's insistence on not presenting himself before the camera, allowing the listener to bask exclusively in the aural experience of the reading. This is not to say O'Bedlam leaves his channel visually bare. While reading Keats' poem, O'Bedlam offers an introductory portrait of Keats, followed by related images that fade in and out against the written verse as background. O'Bedlam also takes care to properly cite the source of all his images, be they a picture of a constellation of stars or an artwork of pen and ink. The commentary field too is full of pithy exchanges, and O'Bedlam's occasional offer of social commentary on a topic covered in a poem is consistently thoughtful and well-written.
O'Bedlam's collection of classical poetry is vast, ranging from Ezra Pound, Ted Hughes, and Sylvia Plath to Pablo Neruda, Charles Bukowski and Roald Dahl. Additionally, if the viewer is interested in the works of a particular poet not readily appearing in O'Bedlam's playlist, there is a search box for one's convenience. In short, Tom O'Bedlam (and those whose channels I've yet to discover) helps revive page poetry from the confines of the bulky anthology typically reserved for college students.
In marked contrast to Tom O'Bedlam is Pearls of Wisdom, another YouTube channel featuring the voice of a single author (whose name is not mentioned) reading from the canon of international poetry. This channel proves the maxim, first appearances can be deceiving. Although beautifully bordered with the profiles of several poets, the quality of the readings is so shockingly terrible as to risk leaving most listeners with a profound and lasting distaste for poetry. Regardless of the poet or content read, the author's voice consistently warbles and modulates a tinny sing-song. Take for example her reading of Allen Ginsberg's "The Ballad of the Skeletons", an insipid interpretation characterized only in its habit of ending each verse with rising intonation. In fact, all of the poems I sampled are treated the same vocally. Stresses are at best seldom appropriate, and the timbre of her voice eviscerates and neuters almost all depth of intended meaning to be found in a poem.
Pearls of Wisdom is also fond of editing the beginning of its readings with an array of garish garden imagery that fades when presenting the word of each verse as they are read. For prospective slam poets and students of theatre interested in listening to examples of how not to read poetry, then perhaps Pearls of Wisdom remains of some use and import. Otherwise, this channel is definitely a pass.
