Introduction to forthcoming book by Tanya Rakh

Soon we shall be releasing Wildflower Hell by Tanya Rakh, &, apart from editing & designing the cover, for which Rob Plath kindly gave us permission to use his awesome picture of a bee getting pollen all over her, I have written a little introductory manifesto, about the book giving a perspective on cPTSD, & nice to read for those of us with this condition. It is how Tanya handles her fire, same as me really. So I post this below, the book is coming soon enough. It will only cost $8, & I can recommend the living shit out of this book. 

EDIT. Now on sale at this link. 

An introductory publisher's manifesto

The year begins with spring, one tends to assume, because that is when the process of growth is initiated through the return of the sun, & when life burgeons. But Wildflower Hell starts in the winter, hell-set in traumatic darkness, because this is a book of healing, of resurrection, of the goddess leaving her blessings in the most unlikely places. It is a beautiful book to read, & it is a manual of sorts, if understood in a certain way.

Of course I have read these poems intently before, for I have plundered all the works of Tanya for epigraphs, a process which finally resulted in me writing, when the plundering reached its maturity, because the stars says so, the fourth book for my own beloved muse. But rereading these now, I think for the fifth or sixth time, to produce this little manifesto, I am struck afresh by the power & profundity of the words in this guidebook about how to tend & manage your cPTSD in order to produce beauty, & thereby ultimately heal yourself. The trauma does not disappear, but is incorporated productively. We start thus at wintertime, because it is de profundis that the healing begins.

This is a small book, a chapbook as they like to call them, & yet it contains so much of a life; there are worlds written in it. Don't tell me about seashells, I agree; tell us instead of the seagulls that control the skies over them, always watching out for snacks & keeping away the pigeons, some of them dressed in dove drag, all tricked out to lie to us, to make us hamsters when we could be possums & hyenas & lions & wolves.

If we sit with Tanya a while, her head full of stars, like the head of the goddess is full of fire & every universe that ever was or ever shall be, she asks us to "[p]aint with me a doorway, a gash in monotone night." This is because we create our own reality in order to exit the traumatic scar: we make our own portals, poetic & perhaps interstitial. We notice our potential lines of flight that will let us escape the rigid stratification of our role as victim. We fly to passion & intensity, as Deleuze & Guattari show us, to create a safe zone to be our animal, to become (more) beasts. We create the crack that lets the light in. The sky is cryogenic in this doorway poem, because it is part of a cold mythology of freezing things down to preserve & protect, the gently snow & the mercy of winter, freezing things to await the chance of healing, & yet it is humming there, because, under the frozen scar of trauma, life still throbs its confusion, a million healthy feelings waiting to burst out alive again.

Spring follows winter, & in spring we fuck the pain away. It does not work every time, but it can "send each recurring nightmare/ as thunder back to sky" for a while. Summer become awareness of the recurrence, it is solidified by now into always the same nightmare, love & time sleeping rigid on opposite sides of the bed, without making eye contact. But the trauma grows in the child, the ghost that you can still hear howling in the skeleton, echoing nightingale there, & maybe it she who leaves the daybroken poems there before the sun comes up. This is part of what happens in the poem "that summer", when "she" grew so much older.

The summer section represents "hell", & hell is not, pace Tanya, a desert making love to fire, that is what heaven is too. Hell is what happens in "breathe", when you apologize for everything, when you surrender yourself to shitty connections, & you breathe or you don't breathe, whatever. We are poet, the scapegoat animal that is not sacrificed, but sent out into the desert wilderness, what we sing is absolute deterritorialization & broken borders, so, as Deleuze & Guattari tell us, no signifying regime can tolerate this. They write that "[y]our only choice will be between a goat's ass and the face of the god, between sorcerers and priests" & it is the goddess we should serve, as do I, & She needs no goddam priests. The goddess is made of love & fire, she makes us out of love & fire, our souls, & the fire is our truest home.

We come to endings, to fall. & the birbs are in the first poem. They pretended to leave early, "replaced by dynamite" & "don't even get me started on the fish", Tanya tells us. The fish, they are innocent. We are the goddam fish. Mr Fish is innocent, he does not understand capitalism but he has a wife to feed, probably little fishies too. The pain he feels is the pain we felt leaving the water so many lifetimes ago. Emma & I did the same thing, it was not easy. Now the pain is the skeleton & the other bits in us as we leave the human being behind to shift into our beast becoming, as we evolve thus, but not all the new bits fit perfectly together yet.

All the newspapers catch fire and the smoke gives way to chants, marches, hashtags . . . all those little things we like to use to distract ourselves. It's always been this way, really . . . a stone isn't always a stone isn't always a memory doesn't always carry moss. For years now it's been easier to dive into molasses but what do we have to show for it? Just ask the fish . ..
(spool)

What can one say? What matters is not all these petty squabbles, this fashionable nonsense, politics & idiots, not any ideology, what matters is the healing & the ontology, it is goddess & resurrection, what aspects of us we are to choose to affirm, & to hope that She affirms & lets them return with us for all our other lifetimes.

 

In this final fall section of the book we deal with the realization of the hell we discovered during the summer section:

like I had drowned,
and the drowning
was done,
and the rain
was over.
now my heart can
die alone
again tomorrow.

and the next day.
and all the endless days we
die alone.
(you die alone)

The horror of cPTSD is its persistence. But ultimately we realize endurance, we perdure & see that

I've lived too many years
here as a dead thing
just to die now
an alias in oil slick,
(always)

All that remains is to find the one of whom one can feel that you are together & you both know it like the ocean knows, like the seagulls tell you their truth, not the murmuring lies of the goddam pigeons:

all that always was and
all the ways we'll fly again

everything we are, and
all the ways we'll fly again
(always)

So it is with pride that we at Posthuman Poetry & Prose present to you a new & restored edition of this great work by Tanya Rakh, her second book with us.

"Hydrogen Sofi" by Tanya Rakh

As noted in the previous post, we are re-releasing the books that Tanya Rakh (a Libra & a credit to that sign) previously did elsewhere along with her future work at Posthuman Poetry & Prose. 

EDIT: To the greater glory of poet Tanya, & even of me, the designer, we have produced a new cover. This is up now. The image below is the new one, & way nicer. I have also done the cover for Wildflower Hell, which is good to go soon, & huge thanks to Rob Plath for permission to use his awesome erotic shot of a pollen drenched bee flourishing her some flowers.

Here is HYDROGEN SOFI at this link. EDIT: Here Sofi is on Amazon.

This book is a huge tribute to the goddess & the beauty of the musal function that she institutes for us, where this applies regardless of the actuality of the real muse, Sofi. It relates to the becomings of Deleuze & Guattari, where the poet becomes a pack, just as one never becomes a solitary animal. (When I say "poet", I mean rather the person who writes poems, & I here remind the reader of Dichtung & Poesie as they are differentiated by Heidegger, &, seriously, fuck "poetry". Did you know, gentle reader, that some sons of whores translate Dichtung as "poesy"? Can you imagine a less appropriate translation?) The "poet" becomes the love & the relationship between the parties, which are both parts of her. Thus the book narrates a "becoming-Sofi" in the damp decay of a cityscape, a fictional union as real as any other. (The pigeons do not want us to say any of this. At some point in everybody's becoming they must stop listening to the pigeons & heed the song of the seagulls.

This book is exceptional through the absence of any actual Sofi, since this highlights a real problem. The Other is constructed in general on the basis of egomimesis, according to an image of the beloved self, which lurks behind the myth of empathy, & all the beetles in all the fucking boxes, all frenetically cancelling out, everything real "divided by zero". Walk a mile in my shoes & you'll get athlete's foot, as Killdozer put it. But Sofi is more real than most characters in memoirs, more real than most actualized characters with whom I ever interacted. This is both a tribute to the splendid fertility of the madness that is Tanya, & also an indictment of the generic & slipshod construction of the Other.

Poesie is of the damn "poetic text". Poesie is seldom really the site of Dichtung, which is the poetic impulse to thought, the opening of thought to Being, & that which aligns real poetry (also Dichtung) with philosophy. It is the origin of thought, it is adumbrated in the play of identity and Otherness that constitutes the narrator/Sofi as real persons. This is why I am happy to publish Tanya, because Being itself plays in her texts, because she is a clearing, a place for the opening of truth. The universal truth of being becomes particular in some Chicago/Paris that never was, fuck the details, & art is dependent on Dichtung ("poetizing") qua the happening of truth, the same happening that projects these characters in their original leap into Being that makes the world of Sofi more real than alleged Gothenburg outside this window here right now.) But there are seagulls here in Gothenburg, some fine seagulls here, & they open up for me the whole of Earth. 

It is a testimony to Tanya's strength that she survived the writing of this book, where she herself creates the one that creates her. 

To return now to the book at hand, we post an Amazon review here, then the cover.

Tanya Rakh’s poetry is audacious and galvanizing. She speaks words that are the cotton candy melting on the pages in a lavender sky. Her ways of spinning luminous verse guide the reader through effervescent forests, sometimes seeming frightening, only to pull you back to safety and calm with her ardent sincerity and candid vulnerability. Rakh reaches depths of swirling cosmic oceans and the still waters of complete tranquility, all the while allowing you into parts of her that feel like dipping your feet into her personal diary of a man-made pond, tossing in countless pennies, where wish after wish seem to go unnoticed.

Hydrogen Sofi is an effulgent whisper, picturesque with such breathtakingly ravishing songs. This book makes feelings twist and turn up liquefying, marble, spiral staircases, like walking slowly on quicksand, in which you just must let yourself sink. It takes emotions yet to be named or felt and drags them through dusty trails hidden on the highest of mountains while allowing you to swim through mercury and emerge safely somehow. You will hold your breath at times.

I’ve never read any other poetry as fierce and raw with so much naked purity as Tanya Rakh’s. Hydrogen Sofi is a touch. It’s a flavor. A mood, a vibe, a taste, a smell, an image splattered on a canvas vibrating against a humid Summer sky and skipping like a stone over a lost creek where magic grows.

This book will change the way you look at poetry. There’s no way to describe it without reading it and dedicating your own poem to the book itself.

Review of "we dance the ghost, Emma" by Aad de Gids

Huge thanks to Aad de Gids for this awesome review. The book is on sale here, at this link & for some reason is selling pretty well.Very pleased by this review. 

This thing obviously did not work out as a relationship, but the books turned out fine which is the main thing.

REVIEW OF DAVID C. MCLEAN'S 'WE DANCE THE GHOST EMMA'

David C McLean has made a big U-turn in his poetry and text. the above mentined book is an aubade to love, unmistakably, gloriously, unapologetic. yet as I suspected the old McLean hasn't disappeared, this all then not to denunciate the truly love that is exposed and splattered, troubadoured and medievalized, made spikey and modern in this also, relentless book. to not double the extravagant joyous and overt sex scenes (it felt as if I was fucking Emma) I searched not for the more scenic, pastoral, but the eversomuch vile and knifing [(n)ontology] (philosophical theory, accreditation on 'being', 'existing' and its grounds or groundlessness). and I found it. this doesn't mean David didn't made a huge U-haul. for him being now is absolved in loving Emma and I can clearly remember writing such texts to my beloved Linwood. but I never also left my bleak and sharp, toothed in the night, exposés, also, like David, in the love texts. 'here this eternal burns 'here this eternal our fire, Emma, my wild love savage & answers, it kindles here, this flame you gave me; i need you beauty & hands to hold me innocent your fingers, they are love enough, they are perfect your drug, their addictive existing'(1)

if this is 'ontology', the philosophical theory of that we are there, it is in fire and love. there is tight connectedness, addictive and quasitoxic. but such is love. I used to say: 'shoot me, love me'. the ground is trembling. 'terra motata'. the fire of the earth is the visceral fire of fever. we see with druggy eyes all glowing. there is the other person whom to love so intensely redefines us. could David first be called a nihilist, an agnost (there is nothing to get worked up on; one can not feel any deity or god). a solipsist (the world radiates from this person, me, and I witness her in my writings). then now there is definitely the David who cares, loves, seeks his loved woman. that this is the primal element that informs his philosophic and poetic work is splendid. and then I discovered the 'old David' in the words. 'your eyes are an intensity, a madness, they put fever in me, they glow a meaning deep into gut & throbbing cock, where dreams grow heaven erect here, we touch, memory & flesh, sex a bright light night[,]'(2) this is still the celebrative tone which demands quite the acclimatization for those who still vividly remember the David of 'another five', 'still three', all vitriolic poems as ultraprecise as denouncing and tearing down the statues. 'here is nothing lacking, the intent content alive at night, resurrection of the sexed flesh - it is defiance its rebellion sex, it defies entropy, time, & death, straddling me you your magnificent freedom, the burning spark at the lustful heart of [being]'(2)

we read here loads of words Davidian: 'entropy, time, death, rebellion, defiance'. we shall see Davids new style drives on two tracks. there is no such thing as to "extrahate" the old David from this new book, this happy life-event, this real time great experience. if you're a writer you're subject to scrutinization (David could perfectly handle that), micro-editing, other wrongdoings. with such glorious radiant book the criticasters are somewhat shun away. you're stupid with critique at what really happens and really is magnificent to be happening on a writer, nurse, hooker, vice-president, transitoperator. love has the power to break in in real life: 'here it seems forever, today is thaw boring & you are in our heart always, Emma, whatever the weather is, you crawl into my breast & your eyes burning through me their radiance is love,['](3) David sometimes seems to reminisce on the 'older times' and clearly sees a division.

this book really makes the 180° and there ain't not many able to do that. but when writing your book is driven. love is a powerful 'motor'. and yet staying is a 'deadpan narrator' who takes care of this continuity of events far away from 'Barbieland' and argumentative incongruencies (there also far away from): 'it was nightmare then, i lived a dead world where monsters moved, it was gray rubble & smoke over a battlefield, there would be no love for centuries, the deadpan narrator said, the land itself was the very devil,(4) the world perhaps is lesser armored, but we have learned that that isn't the case. when in love you have your pink glasses on. then may be the land is unchanged, there is an interventionism afflicting all. we're Liberace eeeeh liberated, we're invited to share. sometimes we see tighter correlations between the grim and crass and the lovehaze spurring us to be invisible and invincible. there are two people feeling safe and one within and without each other. there is a mutual reciprocity. mental distortions and fears, problems with the poise and presence, these will melt as 'love' is also a mental fluidization. 'your name my sad song, my mantra, my madness, we shall fuck the death out of us, lover, because i was yours & you were mine before words came their arrogance'(6) just this connection is more than two.

there is a cozy theory of metalinguistics. 'before words came their arrogance'. I like it. there is a world without words. words disfigure the world. if you're feeling in Love then especially words seem obsolete and at once, accurate to describe these haute haute feelings. both solidify their evidence, existence and immaterial essence. 'we shall touch like ghosts thrown back in the flesh their heaven then, reflecting us evident. // brutal is your beauty, dreams to believe freedom happens. it is madness that answers us, love'(7) this is simply beautiful: ''we shall touch like ghosts thrown back // in the flesh their heaven then, // reflecting us evident. " 'in the flesh', incorporation, embodiment, the old knowing of the body. veda. we're ourselves swarms and nanoparticles connected with the other. the Higgs Boson rests, lays dormant in her bust. these are feminine prerogatives. the immaterial connects with the material: ''we shall touch like ghosts thrown back // in the flesh their heaven then,", as we're now in a spiritual world as spiritual in the rate as it is material. material like birch bark and lichens. Lyotard, Virilio, John Cage and Merce Cunningham always knew dance embodied movement, energy, love, theatricalics, disappearing or [swilling] music. even Cage's vanished music '3:22' where the pianist/e sits for so long just behind the piano or Nam June Paik walks through Tokyo with the violin behind him on a rope. 'To understand, to be intelligent, is not our overriding passion. We hope rather to be set in motion. Consequently our passion would sooner be the dance, as Nietzsche wanted and as Cage and Cunningham want. (Lyotard)'(5) it is also remarkable the logicist David has luckily discovered the poststructuralists. there is a Hauch also of postneoDadaism. they speak towards such mental states. the avant garde music of Eno Ono Fripp Robert Wyatt Soft Machine Nina Simone perhaps the dance of Ohno: Butoh, expresses these domains of erraticism, disdirectional dissipation, short: Love's paths. 'Climate, climate is not southern, a little glass, a bright winter, a strange supper an elastic tumbler, all this shows that the back is furnished and red which is red is a dark color. An example of this is fifteen years and a separation of regret.' (Gertrude Stein)(9)

Gertrude has always spoken in more registries than one. if we now seek, not trying to ambush, Davids two tracks, we see love suffusing the text while we have the deadpan narrator to produce continuity (which is always artificial) for great reading. now there are still bone yards but they're not so much the final bus stops of an Endworld but just part of a world not devoid of love. 'our bones shall dance together their longing, their tolerant intolerance, mad their passion they are waiting, waiting, Emma, the red we paint them with, our hopeful bones await their friends, their playmates'(11) what I loved here was 'their playmates' in the Hugh Hefner sense of the word (what a prick). it is the vaudeville of dance, it are the freak shows down the road, and the bones are real, structuralist human architectonics. so we see the two tracks intermingle, the one derivative of the other, this staunch twosome making a stylistic and clear point. 'so dance the ghost for me, Emma, & make this flesh live in me again, my sacrifice to you, this spoiled meat that even devils rejected, dance the ghost with me, Emma, love us & set us free'(107) here we have the testimony one is able to change towards the love of another and once' own love, reciprocal a 'building' that changes both. David culls these mechanistics, fluidizations, even more: 'there is only one of us this is the intense, Emma, animal instinctual, but love enough, there is only one of us, only this one you'(27) so substantial is this change that there is growth inwards, there is love, there is communal approach, here each solipsism is removed. we're not alone anymore and even microembodied in the other. far from his old poetry and yet the tone has remained the same: ruthless, following this thread ad infinitum. perhaps we can say there is a lot of intensity in David and hey, we share the same profiling with the 'borderline personality' (disorder).

that is actually an overflow on emotions. then this also has to be the similarity in this book of love and his preceding publications. think a cooking cauldron with lava and the expression of it. sometimes you see those people who are poor in senses, feelings, emotions. they are hyperrational. as how David outreaches to his beloved, we're far from this reason- and causality-intoxicated universe. 'there is eternity, Emma, my goddess, & when we touch i shall enact for you exactly what you recite to me, ordered through your eyes, whatever you ask of me, of my body that lives for you, & we can enact a submission that never happens, as if that really mattered,'(108) this domain of logicist-argumentative-causalistic beings does indeed demand 'submission'. it is science porn. the French poststructuralists and earlier, the Frankfurter Schule or Critical Theory, knew how to deal with that. and 'Love' also spills over the boundaries of 'reasonable thinking'. if it is a kind of madness then that is an exhaustive definition. '& you have always understood this love, my madness burning in the snow, i have needed you eternity, Emma, & have you always known this, never told?'(12) in a timeless domain it is if we fly. we're really inside a new parameter. a new fluidum instead of linear listing of 'White Man's Achievements'. we're so over that. look, what I am doing here is talk David's citations towards each other. but it isn't so an artificial addendum. David has gone through a life altering event. illustrated also with restless traveling between persons and continents. we can be happy to have experienced that and, especially, love. in such a Möbius spiral of events and tiredness and fulfilledness, the time disappears. 'The question is this, is it possible to suggest more to replace that thing. This question and this perfect denial does make the time change all the time. (Gertrude Stein)'(14) love = being. an ontology, if one wants. we're human and human is beast. it is an honor to be animal. animalistic reflexes has proven to be resistant and submissive to aeons of fire, violence, complacent mountain valleys, etc. 'our animal freedom. here we bear blood enough to love us, Emma, here we become the beast that becomes its burden, its love, touch us eternal where love is enough for being, demons & beast & love a meaning, you, Emma my beast i believe in'(106)

in the following cited passus we find 'the old McLean' back, as seamlessly as we would like. but this is the bias of analysis: one could with the same validity say the opposite: now there is a new McLean, shards of his tongue appear but the topic has shifted radically. but let me have the joy of, still present, this poemlet as if out of a series of 'another five' and 'the next two'. 'dead children wait their eternity outside the ruins of intolerant hospitals & the priest sleeps shameless his arrogant, an incoherent answer'(15) we can conclude this luxe review of David McLean's book 'We dance the ghost Emma' with these at once deftly and discryptic expressed haul of love towards Emma with 'the dance' as regulative mode: 'dance me sanity drowning in this happy madness with everything living in us, love & touching us like memory heaven was & all the dead men dancing,'(17) 'poems are miserable cunts & they can fuck off. soon baby girl lies close to me & dull discourse stops 'words is black happy water, & all we wanted was one future you'(30).