Gregory Orr on YouTube

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 on YouTube

YouTube Review: Denise Duhamel reads "Egg Rolls"

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.

Is Kara Jones a well-meaning mystic or a shameless charlatan?

KotaPress Loss & Compassion Journal Online

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.

How YouTube helps revive (or in some cases, discourage) page poetry

Tom O'Bedlam Vs. Pearls of Wisdom

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.

A cyber-masochistic exploration of a once and future past

BeeHive: Hypertext/Hypermedia Journal

Not since the virtual sadism of Josh Harris have I been so enthusiastic to revel in the past. Seldom, as I age, do I look to the disjointed evanescence of memory for inspiration, for it is but a battered and despicable thing, this remembrance of things past, broken fragments of one's facade, its many shades of artifice once so ardently defended and justified, now painful shards offering nothing more than piercing flashes of debilitating truth among the ruinous rubble of one's own self-inflicted misery.

There was a time, or so I've been told, when the internet promised a brave new world of aesthetic freedom; a depthless realm into which our darkest and most exhilarated modes of creative expression would thrive. Neither fettered nor governed by the archaic conventionalism of societal norms, the digital cowboy, in all its craven anonymity and penchant for reckless constructivism, thrust fingers first into an expanse of code if it so dared. This was the matrix even William Gibson hadn't yet conceived. Of course, the internet will always remain a work in progress, but the marketing agents and crony capitalists have grown keen to the importance of establishing control. They hire hackers and programmers en masse, purchasing their freedom in exchange for helping them assert their dominance through the filter and reach of algorithms designed to track our every post and purchase online. Pop-ups lurk and abound, sneakily inserting themselves before our unwitting clicks, scrolls, and swipes; blossoming plumes of iridescent advertising tailored to your most treasured and most carefully guarded personal whims. Obfuscation is futile.

Talan Memmott's now defunct online literary journal, BeeHive, offers us digital archivists a reminder of the promise many of us once shared (and rightly still do) about the creative potential of the internet. Beehive, a hypertext and hypermedia journal, was first published in 1998, its last quarterly issue is dated 2002.

Even when judged according to the standards of its time, the layout and design of BeeHive's homepage is underwhelming. Centered against a light, pinkish-brown background is a current issue menu inset with a running list of thumbnails for each featured entry. Along the sides of the center table are three additional panes, quaintly titled ArcHive, BeeMail and BeeHive News. *sigh*

What urged me onward after first glancing at BeeHive's unimpressive homepage were the intriguing titles of its featured works: Landscapes by Bill Marsh, Viractualism by Joseph Nechvatal and Hyberbody by Juliet Ann Martin, just to name a few.

Landscapes by Bill Marsh is a five part multi-media poem. Its introductory piece, Desert Drive-in, presents an alien-shaped vessel in the middle of a barren dessert. Within the neon blue and green shading of the ship, and behind two rows of window portals, scrolls the phrase "my face I did not hide" and below it the phrase "from insult and spitting". Initially, I was struck by the simplistic absurdity of the piece, but the more I looked the more I began to enjoy the deeper meaning the piece seems to suggest. Fanning diagonally from the center of the ship are crudely rendered members of an audience subservient to the cryptic message running across the belly of the ship. Although the viewer is offered no more than a bright green circle to depict the heads of each audience member, they seem entranced and in a state of blind worship, a multicolored unison of arms upraised toward the alien ship poised as theater screen. Before the ship, and in between the audience, are pictorial representations of four separate theater screens, whose cursory position alongside its intended audience subverts the viewer and screen relationship. It's as if the pictures themselves are seeking to fathom the theater-audience dynamic. There is also an ominous hum of sound that adds a sensation of tension and anxiety.

The remaining pieces showcase several dystopian digital friezes; Marsh's "Variation on a Summer Theme" depicts skewed images of children in a trapezoidal frame, from which rainbow colored signals pulse across a forest of bulbed nerves. This culminates with "Fog at Sunrise", where fog spews forth from a crystalline city and tickers across a stretch of ocean. In the foreground is a dock, two of its planks scrolling the phrases "I will bring them back" and "from the depths of the sea", with a single boat moored at its end, its passenger a flashing photographic gallery of ads, except for a single image of a mother and her child.

At least for the sake of early internet nostalgia, take a chance to search this old site for the dreams and hopes of a collection of early multimedia digital artists. 

Of Clowns, Cows, and Crowes

Now Culture

Many quip that the more letters one accumulates after their name, the less they are able to exercise common sense. Of course, if you are a comparative lit professor reading this entry (right), you are undoubtedly bristling at the notion that there is such a thing as 'common sense.' Arguably, what constitutes 'common sense' is merely the product of cultural forces acting within a given historical context, and where meaning is relegated to the momentary consensus of buffoons struggling to fathom and negotiate their insignificance amid the material confines by which they have unwittingly enslaved themselves. But the sight of a distinguished and learned man in his fifties dumbfounded, incredulous, and powerless when half his class disappears forty minutes into lecture...yes, I'm sorry to say, there is such a thing as common sense, or lack thereof.

"Why don't you demand their presence, and give an exit quiz toward the end of lecture?"

"Because I don't want them to feel as if they are being held hostage."

The nature of work governing modern industrial nations exists within multiple, and often competing, layers of absurdity. Because of rapid technological advances, and given that we've transitioned into a period of perpetual change, tasks are managed not only by fewer individuals, but also in ways that seem redundant; we keep paper records in warped, metallic file cabinets alongside virtual, cloud-based data management systems, and the two hardly ever match. Additionally, companies are constantly changing platforms, ensuring an endless state of flux in a desperate attempt to keep pace with the ever fickle tastes and habits of the hyper-informed consumer.

Hang in there, a review is indeed forthcoming.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Luddite. In fact, I love and obsess over technology. But during moments when I'm juggling an iPhone, laptop, PC, and iPad, each of which demands conversation with several people at once over an equally overwhelming number of issues and topics (and in the end accomplishing nothing), I am but forced to acknowledge the absurdity of existence.

It is for these reasons that Ernest Hilbert's online literary magazine, Now Culture, is a welcome and must-read addition to the bevy of tired, overly pedantic journals bobbing obnoxiously across the increasingly commercialized virtual seascape many still so foolishly regard with great excitement, enthusiasm, and hope...the internet. Editors Don Zirilli and Gene Myers venture into literary online territory that rivals the Mad Hatters Review.

Behold, the raven with a doughy-eyed cow's head with bristled snout nudging for endearment as Now Culture's introductory homepage graphic. It is a bizarre and reckless presentation that few will comprehend first glance. Begin clicking on links and you'll soon stumble across an even more obscure series of images, culminating, and only if you are lucky, in a vacant-eyed, mouth-gaping clown with an erect horn protruding from his right hip pocket. Ok, now I'm getting a little carried away, but this clown is one of two key directional icons the reader must decipher, the other is an equally obfuscated map with strange pencil etchings on a blurred glass background.

I will speak of this no more, for therein lies the fun (and madness) in trying to navigate through Now Culture's entries.

I despise the word "edgy." This is not an edgy online magazine but one that is visionary. Oh god, I hate that word too, "visionary."

Hmm...it is playful, brusque, imaginative, challenging, brilliant, and an utter failure.

The first publication that caught my prying critic slits is Sean Burke's poem, Guided Meditation.

"Now think of the sun as peremptory to a certain understanding of the sun think of horses felled think of field mice and think of egrets flown as forms of living mineral thing of all their bodies are capable of as you would think of a person you could love given different circumstances consider cold wrought iron"

It is a wonderful example of free association that challenges and disrupts the reader's perceptual and interpretive processes that are otherwise accustomed to the predictable schemata of the day-to-day. Be patient, don't rush trying to connect each phrase into a continuous and contiguous whole, rather, take a moment to digest and decode each phrase, most of whose self-generated meanings you'll be startled to discover has more to do with your own set of prior experiences as opposed to what the author is inherently attempting to convey.

I also enjoyed unearthing Leni Zumas's poem, And you will know us.

by the bars
on our eyes
you will know us
without wanting to
see our teeth
black from sugar
so much play
and no work
makes me ennui
said the hotel

Zuma's poem continues in this fashion; short controlled phrases whose seemingly cryptic meaning, and unique arrangement, entices the reader to revisit and delve, to subvert the cliche and reinterpret them in ways that broaden and expand sense impressions.

If you are looking for absurdist fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, I urge you to check out Now Culture. Although by no means a polished endeavor, it's on the right track, and I sincerely hope they gain greater traction.

On the question of artistic integrity: Restrepo vs. Elyse Fenton

Restrepo vs. Elyse Fenton

During the shooting of their documentary, Restrepo, filmmakers Sebastian Junger and Tim Hetherington spent 14 months following a company of soldiers in one of the most dangerous parts of Afghanistan, the Korangal Valley.

Restrepo received numerous accolades for its candid and unabashed portrayal of US soldiers fighting not for pride and country (the shot up, mangled face of your best friend after a 360 degree ambush quickly dispels such childish notions), but for each other.

There was much that was depicted in the film; the unflinching determination of bare-chested soldiers digging an outpost while alternately taking fire from unseen enemies, the blank-faced paranoia of soldiers sensing an impending attack during an early morning reconnaissance mission, and the reaction of soldiers when stumbling across the charred remains of dead Afghani children after an air run gone wrong.

I was also impressed by the people not shown, namely, Mr. Junger and Mr. Hetherington. Too many documentary filmmakers ruin an otherwise good production through self-promotion, placing themselves at the center of attention, as if to assert the indispensable nature of their extraordinary investigative cunning and fortitude, showcased through any number of gratuitous action cams and idiotic, tongue flailing displays of socially disruptive behavior. No, Mr. Junger and Mr. Hetherington work quietly behind the scenes, near anonymous participants engaged in the harrowing job of capturing humankind's ultimate act of primordial barbarity, war.

In contrast, there is poet Elyse Fenton whose collection of war poetry, inspired by her husband's experience as an Army medic in Iraq, was awarded the University of Wales' Dylan Thomas Prize. Garnering $47,000 for her work, an impressive amount for any modern day poet, she is also the first American to claim the prize.

When I first heard about this on NPR, I was happy not only for the fact that a poet was receiving media attention, but also for the fact that it was a discussion offering a window into the range of emotions experienced by a husband and wife separated by war.

But excitement and interest soon dissolved into disillusionment.

Allow me to preface. It's not that Elyse Fenton is a poor writer. In fact, she is an excellent poet, whose verse, imagery, and tone are consistently strong. No doubt, what she has achieved stylistically is most certainly worthy of praise. Rather, what disturbs me is the questionable source of her inspiration, and the poetic license that she seems to have taken.

On December 22, 2010, NPR's Susan Phillips interviewed Elyse Fenton and her husband Peenesh Shah. After introducing the poetic merits of Elyse Fenton, Phillips quickly addresses the growing controversy surrounding Fenton's work. Namely, the authenticity of Fenton's reflections on the anxiety and emotional stress experienced as a result of her husband's deployment.

"Shah worries about how other soldiers may view the poems. He says he was safe for the most part and didn't see combat. And he struggles with the idea that he was his wife's muse."

Apparently, Mr. Shah was a Green Zone Army medic.

Put simply, he never saw combat and was seldom, if ever, in danger of losing his life. So why, despite Shah's repeated insistence on his safety, did Fenton persist in dramatizing her emotions, labeling herself a "war bride"?

Staking fencing along the border of the spring
garden I want suddenly to say something about
this word that means sound and soundlessness
at once. The deafening metal of my hammer strikes
wood, a tuning fork tuning my ears to a register
I’m too deaf to understand. Across the yard

each petal dithers from the far pear one white
cheek at a time like one blade of snow into
the next until the yard looks like the sound
of a television screen tuned last night to late-
night static. White as a page or a field where
I often go to find the promise of evidence of you

or your unit's safe return. But instead of foot-
prints in the frosted static there's only late-
turned-early news and the newest image of a war
that can't be finished or won. And because last
night I turned away from the television's promise
of you I'm still away.

According to Fenton, it was the uncertainty and awareness of war that inspired her poetry. Cast in this light, isn't Fenton's emotional response justifiable? After all, her husband was thousands of miles away, subject to the unpredictable whims of war-mongering politicians and their eager-to-please generals, and the steady ticker of IED casualties steadily scrolling across the bottom of every major news channel.

I'll therefore temper my own criticism, and allow one of her husband's comments to speak for itself:

Mr. SHAH: Whenever I hear Elyse talk about her work, I think about the potential of my peers, people with whom I had served, hearing it and what they would think. And I have no regard for what poets or the academy might think

(as an alternative, check out the poetry of Iraqi war veteran Brian Turner)