Singles 2005-2013 Adam Fieled
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ADAM FIELED Adam Fieled is a poet, critic, and musician currently based in Philadelphia. He has released three print books: Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007), When You Bit... (Otoliths, 2008), and Chimes (Blazevox, 2009), as well as numerous e-books, chaps, and e-chaps.
SONG FOR MARIA My scarlet letter let you in We rallied on our separate beds The way to blue was flushed w/ ice Your tongue possesses everything— (lighten my, watch my, blow my) In any case the case is closed We walk the streets, a trackless train My verdant prayer is yr own skin I can’t believe I’m free again— Relax— Ice yr. drink— Think— Pursue a purpose lost in flame Become the scum you dote on, crab The sky, the ground, the square you are The realm of flesh is one long purge— Mercy mercy mercy Mercy mercy
copyright © Adam Fieled
To John Tranter, after reading 'Late Night Radio' & debbie jaffe To John Tranter, after reading 'Late Night Radio'
by Adam Fieled [ poetry - august 06 ]
Why write, embittered by black days? You could scout the sun rise, sip coffee. No one's picking at your liver, no heroic feats need doing. Noon could be pure gravy; nothing need not be filled w/ more nothing. All that's in the files stays in the files, all that's gone brackish is in the ocean now. What's not cream isn't vinegar. It could be iced coffee, not Starbucks.
debbie jaffe & that i must caesar. arms, curd went down. found, mice, shelf, armor machine. wasp it up, & up, & up, real member a machine. then, head, shot, "she said," she said. feel, linger, can't. belly, caesar, belly. debit, giraffe, redheaded. purge to null, urge, two, pull. eye, belly, belie. (
Article copyright 2006 Adam Fieled Site copyright 2003 nthposition.com design by terrene
day song by Adam Fieled [ poetry - april 06 ] & this reflexivity right now: how it bounds. how we are the sum total of our limitations.
we catch glimpses. what's in the catching. what's beyond, behind, between: purple fear. bodies randomly chosen, for different reasons. dreams of form. charades. too bad, but always the knowledge, if we are lucky, of scattered constellations in the world. chewable. fragments. progress. only in patches. must. Do
Article copyright 2006 Adam Fieled Site copyright 2003 nthposition.com design by terrene
Friday, 25 July 2008
Poem by Adam Fieled
Eyewear is glad to welcome Adam Fieled this Friday. He has released two books: Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007) and Beams (Blazevox, 2007). Two books are forthcoming: When You Bit from Otoliths this August and Chimes from Blazevox in 2009. For Dawn As she held scissors, stabbed my chairs, Left a hole for no good reason cause I Couldn’t say no, that she is so darling, this She knows as I blow smoke, and her face was, And is, unreachable, a kind of moon, a fright, A graveyard orphan’s tired lament for a kind Of nakedness she won’t allow, not to me, Though we tried, my hands on her stomach, Teeth bared, it was that kind of holocaust, Afternoon sunlight slanting onto the porch, her Mug some semblance of calm, I jumped a yard, Thinking I’d won her at last And so the table unfolds before us Ashtray eye-beams and saucer-eyed sentences, Coats put on for the chill November wind That reaches around, a kind of strong-armed Curse, an anti-benediction, as if some ruddy Pope put a backwards rhyme on our spoons so That nothing could ever be born from this tryst, But a moon-child cast up into the stratosphere, Without reason for leaving the ground
Poem by Adam Fieled
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Back of a Car Adam Fieled
Asinine, as is, this ass is: ass I zip down into zero: anal, a null, a void, this is. I’m behind a behind that sits smoking, rubbing, pinktipped, tender, butt, button. She watches me watching as I go brown-nose in another. Only her car-ness, averted by eyes to a wall, seems happy. Only she can stomach rubs of the kind that want plugs. Sparked tank, here comes no come, & aggravation.
Big Black Car Adam Fieled
Your middle: tongue (hers), man (me), riding together, I bitch (middle’s middle). I tongue man you, her, spacious, it, of you, all of us, can’t feel a nothing, I can’t. Not of this, of you, of her, of all of this riding, in what looks big, black,
has tongue-room. I canâ€™t feel a thing. I feel nothing of bigness, black fur interior her you. Ride.
OTOLITHS A MAGAZINE OF MANY E-THINGS ISSN 1833-623X 20090327 Adam Fieled
Sex and Nihilism I was thinking as I listened to her about Byronâ€™s relentless nihilism that only found out in intoxication any kind of remedy for the things she was telling me about abortions and rapes and how no I wonâ€™t go home with you and how Byron alone among the Romantics dealt overtly with sex not just love like Shelley or fantasy like Keats or like Wordsworth the dull sheep (of course Blake did too that creep) and all the blokes in the bar were staring at green eyes red hair bust you know the kind that blokes will stare at and I thought Byron really caught something a seed a kernel of what Nietzsche ran away with I said please run away with me and she laughed looked down
into her beer and was finished
Adam Fieled is a poet, musician, and critic based currently in Philadelphia. He has released three print books: Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007), When You Bit... (Otoliths, 2008), and Chimes (Blazevox, 2009), several chaps, e-chaps, and e-books as well. He edits the web-journal PFS Post and the blog Stoning the Devil, and is a University Fellow and PhD candidate at Temple University in Philadelphia, where he teaches.
POSTED BY MARK YOUNG AT 11:46 AM 1 COMMENTS: Chris said... Adam, I really like this. This is really good work. It fucking has your heart in it. I really like it a lot. It speaks to the gut.
-Chris 7:38 PM
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OTOLITHS A MAGAZINE OF MANY E-THINGS ISSN 1833-623X 20100425 POET-EDITORS/ 16
Adam Fieled is a poet currently based in Philadelphia. He has released three print books: Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007), When You Bit...(Otoliths, 2008), and Chimes (Blazevox, 2009), and many chaps, e-books, and e-chaps. His work has appeared in journals like Tears in the Fence, Upstairs at Duroc, Jacket, Great Works, the Argotist, and in the &Now Anthology from Lake Forest College Press. A magna cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, he also holds an MFA from New England College, and an MA from Temple University, where he is finishing his PhD.
What is (or has been) your favorite editing project and why? My favorite editing project has been the series of "Waxing Hot" dialogues I've done on PFS Post, with poets like Gabriel Gudding, Robert Archambeau, Barry Schwabsky, Steve Halle, Amy King, Lars Palm, and Michael Tod Edgerton. Working with Gabe Gudding, in particular, was a tremendous challenge and an honor, and several of this series have been re-published in the UK print journal Tears in the Fence.
On the Possibilities of Multi-Media Readings
In 2004 and 2005, a group of young artists who called themselves the Philly Free School staged a series of performances at the Highwire Gallery, in the nowdemolished Gilbert Building on Cherry Street, Philadelphia. The stated goal of these performances was “multi-media”: as such, they involved poetry, music, fiction, films, and different hybrid/mutant versions of these. What I want to address, specifically, is the poetry aspect of these performances. These seem relevant to me now because multi-media presentations of poetry are, to many, significantly more interesting than standard poetry readings, which are (I would argue) an impoverished form of public expression. What constitutes the impoverishment of poetry readings as public art events? Let’s put the question in different terms: what does a poetry reading offer an average audience? An audience at a standard poetry reading is offered an anti-spectacle— a single man or woman, reading from sheets or a book, often looking down at this book while intermittently gazing up at his or her audience. Why look at something or someone static, and (for the most part) inexpressive? This is the first level of impoverishment. Then, as to the contents of poems read in a public context: are most poems compelling enough, as works of literature, to merit public airing? The truth is that most serious poems do not read that well out loud— poems (good ones) contain enormous amounts of compressed data, which necessitates slow, ocular engagement. Lines that need to be read three or four times to be properly processed pass with such rapidity, in a reading context, that they might as well be Greek as English. Moreover, attendees have two options— to make an earnest attempt to understand things instantly, or to drift off into reverie. The
latter has consistently been my choice (and I have, fortunately or unfortunately, sat through dozens of readings). But the Philly Free School artists (of which I was one) started from the presupposition that poetry could be mixed with Artaud; that public poetry is, in fact, better as a side-dish than as a main course; and that the possibilities of â€œspectaclesâ€? were (and remain) more exciting than more conventional poetry contexts. As such, the Philly Free School shows (which were well-attended but received little media coverage) presented, in general, little in the way of conventional poetry performances; poetry was mixed with video and music to create novel effects. I was proud to contribute to these performances, because they had not only young energies but principles behind them. While I would not deny that results were mixed (some ideas came off, some did not), I have yet to see another concentrated attempt to make poetry multi-media in a public forum. We were using artful language as texture, the way a painter might use brushstrokes, and an inquiry into this usage (language-as-texture) revealed untapped possibilities as regards making poetry interesting to audiences, who may or may not find poetry interesting to begin with. When language is used as texture, as a constituent part of a spectacle that also includes sound and images, the audience (ideally) feels itself immersed or engulfed in a dynamic collage; as such, this kind of performance is an extension of the Modernist ethos. Fractured things can be more compelling than wholes; this was one tenet that motivated Pound, Eliot, and the rest. For an audience, sitting in a darkened room (and the Highwire offered two main spaces, a conventional gallery space and a warehouse space), this sense of brokenness could be interpreted many ways, but the essential thing for us was to present something that was dynamic, rather than static. The most elaborate of these presentations involved music, images, and poetry at once; while it would be reasonable to question whether the total effect was bombastic or not, the responses we received encouraged us to believe that what we were doing was significantly more exciting than an average poetry performance. Live poetry, I would argue, only works as texture to begin with; it is in the mix of things that
live poetry comes alive. In the specific performances that I was personally involved with, I did, in fact, read entire poems; if I had it to do over again, I would not. It would have been substantially more appropriate to read fragments or even to improvise. The video collages were put together from foreign movies, Internet, music video, and photography bits. The musical elements alone were entirely improvised. Although I am proud of what the Philly Free School accomplished, it was merely a beginning. Thinking about it now, we could have been much more rigorous. Our ideas of spectacle were na誰ve, and needed development. What would a completely successful poetry spectacle, in the Artaudian sense, look like? Artaud, of course, became famous for his idea/ideal of the Theater of Cruelty; a spectacle that confronts an audience with its own mortality, in an unflinching, persistent way. What kind of poetry fragments could add, textually, to such a spectacle? It seems to me that the poetry would have to be written specifically in conjunction with, specifically for, the music and the images. They would have to function, in other words, dramatically, as carriers of a certain kind of drama, just as dialogue in a theater production does. What can poetry contribute that mere dialogue cannot? Poetry has in its arsenal a capacity for incantatory power that dialogue does not; an ability to build, to create rhythms, melodies, and cadences that dialogue cannot. Anaphora is one method by which this kind of fragment could work; rhyme is another. This is texture that creates stimulation; with other elements, the potentiality for genuine spectacle, cohesive spectacle (rather than na誰ve, haphazard spectacle) arises. As to what the spectacle addresses, there is no real limitation, other than the impulse to compel attention, hold it, and overwhelm at once. Certainly the apocalyptic conflicts in the Middle East, our flagging domestic economy, and the status of the environment are all fertile (pardon my irony) ground. Then, there are things standing in the way of this kind of spectacle: time and budgets are big ones. Many poets just skirt insolvency; serious spectacle (unfortunately) often involves serious funds. The Philly Free School were lucky with this, more so than we realized; the Highwire let us use the space for free
(though they took a cut of the door). But to come up with ample space, time, and funds is a real challenge, which cannot be solved overnight. It may come down to a collective, like the Philly Free School, to make this happen, if it does ever happen. To my mind, it would be a tragedy if it does not. There are, in general, too few poetry readings that have any capacity to stimulate, and too many that wind up being “snooze-fests.” The irony, for one working in an experimental context, is that avant-garde poetry readings tend to be even more boring than mainstream ones— abstruse poetry out loud, which shuns narrative, is more difficult to follow, and often registers as little better than gibberish. But I will simply say, for myself, that the desire to create a genuine spectacle with poetry has not perished, and I hope other kindred spirits are “waiting in the wings.”
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P OSTE D B Y MARK YOU N G AT 4: 39 P M 0 COMMENTS: P OST A C OMME N T << Home
Jacket 40 — Late 2010
Jacket 40 Contents
This piece is about 2 printed pages long. It is copyright © Adam Fieled and Jacket magazine 2010. See our [»»] Copyright notice. The Internet address of this page is http://jacketmagazine.com/40/fieled-from-apparition.shtml Adam Fieled poems from Apparition Poems
#1345 Two hedgerows with a little path between — to walk in the path like some do, as if no other viable route exists, to make Gods of hedgerows that make your life tiny, is a sin of some significance in a world where hedgerows can be approached from any side — I said this to a man who bore seeds to an open space, and he nodded to someone else and whistled an old waltz to himself in annoyance.
#1476 Days follow days off cliffs —
do these things we do have any resonance, do they rise into the ether, or are they to be ground down into pulp, briefly making earth sodden, then dissipated dust scattered over plains too vast, blasted with winds, rains, storms, to be counted or harvested?
#1480 How horrendous, to realize there are people in the world with no soul, walking zeros, hollow spaces, dead end interiors, permanently frozen faculties, how horrendous to watch how they borrow words of others to sound profound, but each echo reveals thereâ€™s nothing behind it but the kind of charred silence that comes after a corpse is burnt â€” how horrendous, how it makes some of us cling to what we feel, how we feel, that we feel, and that everything we feel is so precious, specifically (and only) because it is felt, and stays felt.
Adam Fieled, second from left
Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. He has released three print books: Opera Bufa (Otoliths, 2007), When You Bit… (Otoliths, 2008), and Chimes (Blazevox, 2009), as well as numerous chaps, e-chaps, and e-books, including Posit (Dusie Press, 2007), Beams (Blazevox, 2007), and The White Album (ungovernable press, 2009). He has work in journals including Tears in the Fence, Great Works, The Argotist, Upstairs at Duroc, Cake Train, and in the &Now Awards anthology from Lake Forest College Press. A magna cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, he also holds an MFA from New England College and an MA from Temple University, where he is completing his PhD.
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Adam Fieled: Best of/ Sampler #1345 Two hedgerows with a little path betweenâ€” to walk in the path like some do, as if no other viable route exists, to make Gods of hedgerows that make your life tiny, is a sin of some significance in a world where hedgerows can be approached from any sideâ€” I said this to a man who bore seeds to an open space, and he nodded to someone else and whistled an old waltz to himself in annoyance. Adam Fieled's Miscellaneous _______________________
Absurd perspectives William Hogarth (10 November 1697 - 26 October 1764) _______________________
On Barcelona Wednesday, June 20, 2012
fr. The Great Recession Chinese Water Torture Chinese water torture: that’s how it is today with these girls, these schools, the IRS, everyone. He thinks this on his bike, as he swerves through the city streets. Last year he got hit: broke his shoulder. He was still insured then. Now, he’s forced to just risk it. Two of the other messengers he “grew up” with are now deceased. He scattered one of their ashes into the Delaware on Christmas night. Then, he had his turkey. *** Fetching Scabs, sores, pus— that’s all she can think about, as she walks around in circles. But (of course) that’s just my perspective. I gave her what I could (what she needs is money). So two bodies are sitting in a crowded movie
theater, watching a foreign film about the lives of terrorists. Theyâ€™re both tuned out, but have been told the film is excellent by several reliable sources, who consider them like dogsâ€” loyal, anxious, fetching. *** Fellating the Pickle Everyone knows she has about two years to live. The blonde babe who runs shipments sits smoking at the Esquire Bar with a guy who still has the rat-tails he had at Cheltenham. How do you behave when you have two years to live? Well, you might try making your body a weapon. You might bop around shaking your hips so that no one might touch. Or fellating the pickle which comes with your sandwich. You might. But as you dance on nothingness, someone watching you is also watching his watch. ***
On Barcelona Friday, May 31, 2013
Peanut Butter and Rabies The aged woman with glasses, doing charity work, wants some charity herself. The nights at this place have been long— the kids get disgruntled, people aren’t bringing in as much food as they used to. If it’s another peanut butter and jelly night, she has to bear the brunt. All the kids see is a half-empty plate. Her husband won’t come anymore— the atmosphere is too strained. The kids, she thinks in spite of herself, are like a bunch of dogs with rabies. And, as she can’t tell, they think the same of her. *** *** Posted by Halvard Johnson at 11:12 AM
OTOLITHS A MAGAZINE OF MANY E-THINGS
ISSN 1833-623X 20130603
from The Great Recession
American X From inside the American art scene, he used to think to himself (especially New York), you can only take things so far if you’re not backed up; and (praise the Lord) he was. But he only did the requisite amount of dealing, and no more. He actually cared, here and there, about what he was creating. He was mordant and morbid in the right way, the artpress said. But the “X” someone scrawled on a napkin and left on his night-stand last night suggest something mordant to his will. Isn’t that funny?
Every day it’s the same routine— a few of these, a few puffs of this or that. He reads from the prompter, high as a kite. Everything he reads is, as he knows, pure nonsense and even high, he can’t get comfortable with the situation. It’s all too obvious— not that anyone’s out there to notice. The perks of local fame aren’t much anymore. But they drop the pills and the pot into his lap to arrange the emptiness and deadness of things. He seems to see, receding into a greasy gray sunset, some notion of an ideal he once had, at least sometimes. The smile freezes on.
Wet Dream He walks around in a bilious, towering rage— he can’t even stand the teenager selling him cigarettes. Nor can he stand the stacks of newspapers, the freezers full of soda, the rows of gum and mints. Everything here was made in a factory, as was he, only to find in the last epoch of his life he was alone, the shelf he was on bare but for him. The teenager behind the counter laughs at this old grump, because his father is even worse, who can’t afford smokes.
Limekiln Pike This in-crowd were always going on escapades. After a certain point, I told them they were like a bad show on Fox. She told me later the comment stung. If she really is dead and buried (that’s what the text said), I’m sorry. I’m sorry that having a few kids in this economy killed her off. My own version of deadness: re-runs. The last time I turned left onto Limekiln Pike, I almost got hit by a convertible full of kids.
Abington Night I keep imagining Abington at night. The sense in the air is this: we can’t be as far down as we are. The guy tending bar here (in this dreamedof place) is an old friend. His angle on the world (he’s been married and divorced) is satire. But satire depends on people being willing to laugh. And if I still sit in my car in the parking lot of Abington High leering at girls, I can still laugh at that too. The Dairy Queen on Limekiln Pike remains the same. The girls still like ice-cream in the summer-time, right?
Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. His books include Apparition Poems, Chimes, Opera Bufa, and Cheltenham. His books and press cuttings are being archived by the Poetry Library at the Southbank Centre, London.
POSTED BY MARK YOUNG AT 3:09 PM