Responding to Dada Poetry

A Poetry Feature for MetaDada

The following collection of student poetry emerged from the course, Introduction to Creative Writing: Poetry, taught by Professor Rhonda Pettit at University of Cincinnati Blue Ash College. The students were introduced to the origins of dadaism, and were provided with an inspirational prompt in the form of Hugo Ball’s sound poem, “Karawane” as recited by Marie Osmond on the mid-eighties TV program, Ripley’s Believe It or Not. The poetic responses are spontaneous and unedited. – Editor

 

Real or Not Real
By Alyssa Ferreri

I don’t how it started,
I’m not sure when it happened.

My consciousness is muddled.

My dreams feel like life,
My life feels like a dream.

Hazy and clouded.
My thoughts are broken and incontinuous.

My body is not my own,
I do not recognize my reflection.

My voice belongs to someone else,
It doesn’t sound like me.

I don’t remember when this started,
And I’m not sure how to go back.

Help.

 

The Story of the Tiger Master
By Bryant Pil

Tigris ri se na ca to bert
Ug se uma tu bai see nai ruu
Flisk chung chong chang bur suie
Tigris, ug flisk quan zine ze cha nob
Ug fig sig nich gon kull
Tigris se sag on kull uugh neh shu.

Tigris ni sen puri nours se cha nook
Flisk igris runt ti nag commn ca ser.
Temperla nei no umbra or ursa chame
Tigris gon kull umbra nove ursa
Ursa pleau ruf ser Tigris no nore kull.

Tigris par que ti ni chu se sa ming.
Tigris kone ser chai leon nor essarers
Leon rolay par tear Tigris

Essarers nest que sa seur que non blem
Tigris kone ure ser say aster et vati nu.
Leon sa cer aster pone tui kola ser ni ca
Bour ran essarers aster que new von tans que sont.

 

superstitious world hangs over me
By Emily Mannira

Black cat black cat
love me, feel me, be free
Black cat black cat
6 + 6 = 12 + 1 = 13
13 x 2 = 26
26
That number follows me
ever since the day I was born
6/26/1996
Black cat black cat
love me, feel me, be free

 

[untitled]
By Marie Hopkins

the stomach falls pitless
it couldn’t comprehend
what happens to goblins that don’t make sense
they fall off their trolls
and tickle their toes
and the words that you stumble creeps around
round the hose
shit bumble bee
I don’t know what you be
what you see
around the whole garden
flying after me
pits in my stomach
spits after you
everything I’ve said I mean to consume
brackish bees down my neck
hornets sting tone and flesh
and empties and parties and terrible turns
round the garden
with zits on my stumpen
ground on so fluven
crumpled and fallen, little bees jack the oven
honey in me, honey you see, honey it tastes so naturally
sugar is lumpy ee ee e he
confound all the variables
split open a tree
that falls in the woods
when no one’s around
she jumps in the leaves
she makes all the sound
terrible twos turn into fours into doors you walk through
spun in the stifle that huckers down my knees
crumbles and turns
I never liked stew
I always ate breakfast
for dinner it sooms it crues it dues it knows
what to assume and what to leave lingering
to burn in the simmer
and all the eyes knowing, at least I think they know me,
but all they assume is all that they see
my handwriting lingers and busies its neck
and folds into corners that fall over deck
we were leaning too far
too long in the winter
spring rain came burning to knock over retreat
run little falter, run next to me
I’ve always felt empty, but now I feel free
quick as a rabbit darts underground,
quick as the coffin I pick out of sound
it’s mine, it’s yours, this was all meant to be
and now I can’t understand what I’m trying to be

 

DaDa
By Andrew Wood

Elope antifreeze
Set out with the true ones
Those punks and hippies
Who take care of their own and you
If you let them
Bring sides to fancy not together
But of each other
Semblance of entrance or entrancement
I found play dough on the wall and dreamed along winding root of discretion
I’m not sure who was at the pizza window
I was rude but not rude for a minute
My clock need be 10 minutes too fast
So I feel late and worry
I must worry
I must worry to move to forwardly seeking, anxious, impending
And I said no to it
The thought must do it
I must make noise louder and louder and louder and louder and louder
I will wear leather
Then sweater
Then long flowing tie die
I will wear pleather
And a long dress
And comic book sideways
Sidelong and headed, pushing them further
I will get louder sun scream smelling like ball point pen ink

So sophist sadists
Those that must conquer
Must win forever
must undo others
So she who wheoo
Setoo the sell off of out take camp
My companion get static startled
Lazy with reverb and honest occasion
Rip up your ledger
Spill oil out out out

 

Purple Platypus
By Matt Zupancic

Purple, a king’s color, royalty, Crown Royal, Canada, maple, sweet,

sugar cane, tropical, paradise, no worries, lazy day, Sunday, Sunday Bloody Sunday, U2,

concerts, summer time, sunshine, camping, outdoors, forests, mountains, west, California

dreaming, The Mamas and the Papas, 1960’s, revolution, youth, innocence, dreams, reality,

perception, Doors of Perception, philosophy, Plato, Pluto, planets, solar system, sun, light,

dark, night, city life, no sleep, energy, coffee, morning, fresh start, new, amateur, experience,

mastered, teachings, knowledge, knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss, happiness, euphoria,

dopamine and serotonin, chemicals, chemistry, biology, life, animals, mammals, platypus.

 

My Brother and I
By Katie Brooker

We look at each other
Snagler wayshamled tofaba
Fortuga beyshlamanate iletudo
Mgmletufe cosada fe lefa
Hehe coos outward from our lips

Tosha sumartotos lexituda
Mgmletufe cosada fe lefa
Another giggle escapes

No one will know
Shasamasa waytora bala conaskay
Snagler wayshamled toga faba
Mubu falata dula
Whispered to one another

Amatada foralara fefocale
Nalo belata cocoam
Just the two of us in the world

Keeping each other safe under the covers
Latusa shalatuda fasleta ahsha
Cuslatu shafu malate krla
Krlashe latusa amatada
We hear the thud thud of footsteps

Ahhh! Sheaforta!
Nhama Nhama shh
Fear riddled whispers between us

Just the two of us against the world
Hack tou faltusha awlashatu
Amentutada shashata huhufaha
With our secret language

Hash sh ha shshha Matula
Sheaforta Matula Hahash shshhash
Mom and dad will never know

The Fist of Fibonacci

An Interactive Poem Project for MetaDada

by Rhonda Pettit and H. Michael Sanders

Image01-Fist of Fibonacci

Introduction

“Golden Numbers with Line by Jack Spicer” is a poem based on the well-known Fibonacci sequence of numbers, in which each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers. This pattern of numbers occurs repeatedly in nature, with the stabilization of the ratio between numbers reaching .618 to 1. Many have believed that this ratio, known as the Golden Section, represents a way of arranging parts to each other and to the whole of a piece in an aesthetically pleasing way. Modern artists, musicians, architects, and poets have applied this ratio to their work.

Image02-Fibonacci Diagram

In our poem, we applied the sequence to the number of lines in each stanza. Rhonda Pettit started with a borrowed line by poet Jack Spicer (“Imaginary Elegies I”; the remaining lines to be original). H. Michael Sanders followed with another single line (1 + 0 = 1) stanza; Rhonda responded with a 2-line stanza (1 + 1 = 2), etc. The writing is largely improvisational, drawing on the spontaneous aesthetic they used in their collaborative work for the Gaps & Overlaps exhibition at the UC Blue Ash College Art Gallery (www.ucblueash.edu/artgallery).

Image03-Fibonacci Numbers on Paper

How long will they be able to keep it up before the poem metastasizes into stanzas consisting of hundreds and thousands of lines? How long before the Fist of Fibonacci pounds these hapless poets into mute, slowly settling layers of dust?

Print

Golden Numbers with Line by Jack Spicer
by Rhonda Pettit and H. Michael Sanders
srednaS leahciM .H & titteP adnohR

First published in the MetaDada Blog [metadadajournal.wordpress.com]
as a serialized feature titled The Fist of Fibonacci

Fist of Fibonacci – Installment 1 Published on February 25, 2016

Stanza 1 (1 line)
Poetry almost blind like a camera

Stanza 2 (1 line)
An image resolves in the gap between impulses

Stanza 3 (2 lines)
Rises to tone untangled from chord and rends
all dissonance, consonance, chemistries of stance

Stanza 4 (3 lines)
Buzzing like hot insect breath in the ear canal,
calcifying jellied membranes into photo emulsion
through which visions arise and faintly flicker

Stanza 5 (5 lines)
to sweep and to swap such mechanical indignities
as numbers always dictate, lodging here and there
like tics between follicles, for the space
filled with meaning i-chinging possibilities
with exposed surfaces and supposed persons (O, Emily!)

Stanza 6 (8 lines)
I can hear the phone ringing but can’t find it…
where is that damn thing and who keeps calling me?
then the phone stops ringing and it’s so very quiet,
so quiet that I begin to hear my heart beating and
the rhythm of my blood surging through my arteries…
where is that damn phone and why is it so quiet,
why doesn’t it ring, why isn’t anyone calling me?
why do I keep asking these questions of myself?

 

Fist of Fibonacci – Installment 2 Published on March 04, 2016

Stanza 7 (13 lines)
Because poetry almost deaf like a phone keeps calling
all the unlucky numbers, keeps dialing with its thumbs
the image transmissions of words and music we need
in these our times trying hard to be and knot. Be. Cause
poetry almost hard and shiny as a plastic case (or a case
of plausibilities) reflects what it sees through its thorn-
colored glasses and ouch! what we wouldn’t give for
vision so sharp, for a series of sharp visions, for serious,
Sirius-less visions. Because poetry almost free as the ag-
gregate that used to be your driveway and far more
sharp and colorful when it’s lodged inside your shoe
is on the ball and better than a cell phone a bell tower a bell
curve. A blister not a diamond is a supposed poem reaching

Stanza 8 (21 lines)
Peering intently into the thick and blistering darkness,
thumbs resolutely thrust into raw, bulging eyes while
familiar voices ring hollow – as empty and wooden as a
napping ventriloquist’s dummy face down on the stage –
teeth chattering in odd rhythms that can only be followed
with fugitive and transitory attention without any thought
or meaningful intervention into the thinning, ephemeral
mist condensing into rivulets of sweat stinging the eyes…
fuzzy edges embedded in glib, transient interpretations
trapped in the slow, inevitable process of disappearing
into languorous foetuses emerging directly from the hot
entrails of the poet, issued singing the diabolical songs of
charlatans with tongues of flame flapping like loose sails…
thoughts, ideas and words transformed into cheap tourist
souvenirs and dropping like fat sausages into a cosmic
conflagration swirling into the fine royal jelly of bees…
transfixed by breathing and formulating urgent plans for
childhood while wearing the deep, red scars left as tracks
by the ticking clocks of history… still ticking… ticking…
with minutes before the alarm goes off to betray the faith
in silence [                                                                        ]

 

Fist of Fibonacci – Installment 3 Published on March 11, 2016

 Stanza 9 (34 lines)
. But by now we all know what it all adds up to: the Fugitive Poem bursting out
of and blurting out from the white space, the silence, the old cold
blanks shot by the corporate snow that carpets our membrains.
Less than a birth and more than a muse, a genie, a goddess,
the gods or the godless, and ranging from mountain-sucking
electric clouds of digital digitless ink pots to hand-held inklings
on their slow-to-go scratching on the backs of pages, with secret
sages leaning over their shoulders, shushing the pouters,
the doubters, the internal editors, and stomping the little rats running
their wheels of spin screaming faster faster more more faster faster
better better this sucks that way that sucks this way faster more, and Splat!
goes the rat for a moment or two, those secret sages like Big Foot
or somebody’s Lassie saving the day. And out scats the loco fermenti,
the voco con jello, the verso contrivo, the here it is, Gumby, and the rest
of us can read it, ride it, jump from it, or swim in it, all it takes
is our two eyes and a few minutes of our lives. The time it takes
to imagine singing an aria with a blistered tongue. Let’s leave it there.
Whoever follows can play it like pick-up sticks. Less than a birth
because whatever it says and is by saying, it suckled on sweat and worry
and suffering and joy and confusion and foolishness and vast red balloons
of egomaniacal dry dreams before the teat of the pencil or keypad
stroked it into wordstock, and more than a birth for the same shenanigans.
And more than divinities of whatever shape and size and sex since
those same shenanigans invented same! Give credit where credit is due –
Splat! – because when all is said and done – Splat! – all we can do
is follow the integrity of the Fugitive Poem, whether dressed as a plain-
clothes cop, or dolled-up ducky like contestants at a Michael Jackson look-
alike contest, whether empty as a girdle on the line or lined up like girders
on a beach-sucking high-rise condominium in beautiful downtown
Florida. In either case the Fugitive Poem knows what it’s like to be
behind bars (& in a few) and wants to tell us how to not be what it was
before it came down to words, knowing it’s impossible, knowing
the laugh’s on us, knowing if we knew we wouldn’t write it in the first
place – Splat! – and hearing the distant smack of a closing book or laptop.

Stanza 10 (55 lines)
A pinched, grimacing face covered in sublime inscriptions,
shouting aloud a quite brittle series of mysterious cries in a
strained and high-pitched voice shaped like an hourglass…
Fine white sand flowing through a purposeful constriction
to become its own measure of time and space and volume…
White space and silence cover the inherent noise of living
with a thin veneer of hot divinity and itching, liquid dreams
that spew into consciousness on the backs of burning words…
Burning words that curl into the ash of the Fugitive Poem as
it transforms from impulse to object of spiritual imagination…
An object impregnated with animal intensity staring into the
void while wearing the thin cloak of art, which is the only
concealment possible from the icy emptiness of uncertainty…
Only the thinnest of vestments may be procured to shield us
from the brutal and relentless emptiness of utter certainty…
A twitching voice emerges amid the brittle cries brandishing
much less imagination than that of a worm wriggling on a
rain-soaked sidewalk of fitful sleep winding through theory…
The worm begins to speak in a polyglot of symbols through
a transparent grin adhering to its toothless protuberance…
After a fine speech the worm tires of its efforts and changes
its mind, committing henceforth to only utter the most clear
and definitive statements about the ideas of mushrooms…
A young boy on a bicycle swerves down the sidewalk in the
rain, leaving the worm with a noble attitude of rotting meat…
The language of light spills through clouds of unknowing to
illuminate inconceivable immensity seen only by a wall of
spider eyes confounded by the vague, shimmering vision…
Exhaling a blue-grey vapor the spiders read the book of
clouds in a chorus of voices that ascend the Tower of Babel…
Babbling cacophony and tumultuous clamor reverberate in
throbbing patterns of simple awareness throughout a dimly
lit collective dream that collects in shallow pools of hope…
Only spirit, dream and sex can result in an authentic sense
of collectivity amid the hurdy-gurdy dialectic of pure reason…
Spontaneous collisions and arbitrary associations are blurred
by distinctions, a consumptive form of labor, that convey the
burdens and pleasures of choosing one thing over another…
Neither nature nor its witness is static, but are only known in
their constant state of perpetual flux and wide circular forms…
Palpitations emanate from the darkness of promising speech
glimmering like daemonic magic lanterns that twist and turn
into beautiful neckties from which we hang ourselves to dry…
Pushing hard pencils through the surface of the paper as the
palpitating text is inscribed to become poetry and philosophy…
A naked hand smears the lines into dry undulating rituals of
sound as they are spoken by a dancing tongue and drumming
lips sculpting the body’s hot breath in hard, chiseled verses…
In this way we sanction lunacy in small bright fragments that
we revere as content to memorize and soberly meditate upon…
Transfigured by experience and gracious recollections of it
through the fragrant splendor of memory we hurtle without
weight through space and time with a multiplying voice…
A voice that fractures and multiplies like an echo; that bears
contradiction, repetition and multiplicity in radiant patterns…

 

Fist of Fibonacci – Installment 4: Published on April 15, 2016

Stanza 11 (89 lines)
. . . and then: Text marks the spot. The Fugitive Poem becomes
the very thing it tries to break away from, the enlightened
worm of the sidewalks cut in two, a copy of itself.
And the Fugitive Poet becomes outraged at the outrage
committed against the worm, whose time-honored job
was to bring us all down to earth. Can you imagine?
Be. Cause. Breath is a verse. A universe. A multi-verse.
And reverse. Cola-coca! is the Fugitive Poet’s curse.
But isn’t the Fugitive Poet only as ornery
as the beekeepers of time allow her to be?
For they know almost as well as the bees themselves
the manifest Honor in ornery (remember the Fugitive
Poet named Honoré?), that it takes more than color
and buzz to get the honey, that at some level
far and away below the midnight of hives it sometimes
takes a little sting to get the honey, though the bees
will never admit this, and the beekeepers try
to forget this, though netting and gloves have something
to say about that! Meanwhile the Fugitive Poet
has stings from within that make her
buzz the silences into submission for just
long enough to set the rhythm free,
and bingo-bango! there goes the little poem
dancing its crusty feet to a sonorous
orneriness while the Scholars of the Glorious
Assumption drool with – aw, shucks! They’ve stopped
reading by now anyway! And thank goodness for that
because the Fugitive Poet long ago rattled
that rusted red caboose in her brain
and made it her semi-concrete mission in life
to stay out of little boxes on the hillside,
even the fib of a box she has made for herself
and Dr. Daretaker that is adding up to this:
In contemplation of the intimidation of the inundation
it would take to write 8ty-9ine lines – that’s practically
a barn of a stanza, livestock, hay bales, field mice,
tics, and pitch forks included – the Fugitive Poet breaks
her
own
law
or
at
least
cheats
a
little
by
writing
only
one
word
per
line
for
awhile
but
at
least she’s not writing one syllable per line
and including the pauses and spaces between words
and letters, at least she breaks the making the broken
rule just made and gets back to the business – Splat!
of fugitating (meanwhile the Scholars of the Glorious
Assumption are shaking their beards and tightening
their bra straps and leaning in to confer, and there
hasn’t been this much conferring since Walt Whitman
conferred with the creatures along Elkhorn Creek)
which brings us back to bees and stings and honey
and the state of the Fugitive Poem. Because by now
we are noticing the missing planks, the space between
ribs, a skeletal barn with a holy roof that leans a little
to the left, and wants to be loved for its use and beauty,
and loves better the white horse grazing beside it
like a floater in the eye of the Fugitive Poet. Blink
and follow it and forget where you are and now
you know what it is to be a Fugitive Poet.
Which brings us back to ornery. And the possibility
that if the Fugitive Poet were to pony up and pontificate,
to issue a rebus of regeneration amid vultures on the barn,
economies of steam, and stationary fronts of progress,
she might say                                                  eventually
something like this: Practice random acts of pruning!
Sprawl your scratchings hither and yon!
Be a wall poet! A boxcar poet – minus the box of course!
Carve your love epistles into the bark of the page!
Stop and stomp with the interstate daffodils! Because really.
If all of us hadn’t come along and transformed
the wilderness into an I-Hop, there would be plenty
of stings and honey and bears to be the poets. Or poems.
But sshhhh! It’s mid-March and the redbuds are whispering.

 

To be continued with next MetaDada update…

Image05-Fibonacci-Divider

The Fist of Fibonacci

An Interactive Poem Project for MetaDada

by Rhonda Pettit and H. Michael Sanders

Image01-Fist of Fibonacci

Introduction

“Golden Numbers with Line by Jack Spicer” is a poem based on the well-known Fibonacci sequence of numbers, in which each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers. This pattern of numbers occurs repeatedly in nature, with the stabilization of the ratio between numbers reaching .618 to 1. Many have believed that this ratio, known as the Golden Section, represents a way of arranging parts to each other and to the whole of a piece in an aesthetically pleasing way. Modern artists, musicians, architects, and poets have applied this ratio to their work.

Image02-Fibonacci Diagram

In our poem, we applied the sequence to the number of lines in each stanza. Rhonda Pettit started with a borrowed line by poet Jack Spicer (“Imaginary Elegies I”; the remaining lines to be original). H. Michael Sanders followed with another single line (1 + 0 = 1) stanza; Rhonda responded with a 2-line stanza (1 + 1 = 2), etc. The writing is largely improvisational, drawing on the spontaneous aesthetic they used in their collaborative work for the Gaps & Overlaps exhibition at the UC Blue Ash College Art Gallery (www.ucblueash.edu/artgallery).

Image03-Fibonacci Numbers on Paper

How long will they be able to keep it up before the poem metastasizes into stanzas consisting of hundreds and thousands of lines? How long before the Fist of Fibonacci pounds these hapless poets into mute, slowly settling layers of dust?

Print

Golden Numbers with Line by Jack Spicer
by Rhonda Pettit and H. Michael Sanders
srednaS leahciM .H & titteP adnohR

Fist of Fibonacci – Installment 1 Published on February 25, 2016

Poetry almost blind like a camera

An image resolves in the gap between impulses

Rises to tone untangled from chord and rends
all dissonance, consonance, chemistries of stance

Buzzing like hot insect breath in the ear canal,
calcifying jellied membranes into photo emulsion
through which visions arise and faintly flicker

to sweep and to swap such mechanical indignities
as numbers always dictate, lodging here and there
like tics between follicles, for the space
filled with meaning i-chinging possibilities
with exposed surfaces and supposed persons (O, Emily!)

I can hear the phone ringing but can’t find it…
where is that damn thing and who keeps calling me?
then the phone stops ringing and it’s so very quiet,
so quiet that I begin to hear my heart beating and
the rhythm of my blood surging through my arteries…
where is that damn phone and why is it so quiet,
why doesn’t it ring, why isn’t anyone calling me?
why do I keep asking these questions of myself?

Fist of Fibonacci – Installment 2 Published on March 04, 2016

Because poetry almost deaf like a phone keeps calling
all the unlucky numbers, keeps dialing with its thumbs
the image transmissions of words and music we need
in these our times trying hard to be and knot. Be. Cause
poetry almost hard and shiny as a plastic case (or a case
of plausibilities) reflects what it sees through its thorn-
colored glasses and ouch! what we wouldn’t give for
vision so sharp, for a series of sharp visions, for serious,
Sirius-less visions. Because poetry almost free as the ag-
gregate that used to be your driveway and far more
sharp and colorful when it’s lodged inside your shoe
is on the ball and better than a cell phone a bell tower a bell
curve. A blister not a diamond is a supposed poem reaching

Peering intently into the thick and blistering darkness,
thumbs resolutely thrust into raw, bulging eyes while
familiar voices ring hollow – as empty and wooden as a
napping ventriloquist’s dummy face down on the stage –
teeth chattering in odd rhythms that can only be followed
with fugitive and transitory attention without any thought
or meaningful intervention into the thinning, ephemeral
mist condensing into rivulets of sweat stinging the eyes…
fuzzy edges embedded in glib, transient interpretations
trapped in the slow, inevitable process of disappearing
into languorous foetuses emerging directly from the hot
entrails of the poet, issued singing the diabolical songs of
charlatans with tongues of flame flapping like loose sails…
thoughts, ideas and words transformed into cheap tourist
souvenirs and dropping like fat sausages into a cosmic
conflagration swirling into the fine royal jelly of bees…
transfixed by breathing and formulating urgent plans for
childhood while wearing the deep, red scars left as tracks
by the ticking clocks of history… still ticking… ticking…
with minutes before the alarm goes off to betray the faith
in silence [                                                                        ]

To be continued with the next Metadada update…

Image05-Fibonacci-Divider

A Rrose

BS2-I-Married-a-Dadaist

A Rrose
By H. Michael Sanders
with a tip ‘o the hat to Gertrude Stein

A rose is arose is a eros is a Rrose
or it is what it is, or it isn’t…

February 19, 2016


Hand-Engraved-RGertrude Stein’s original line, “A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose” comes from her poem, Sacred Emily (1913), which was published in her book, Geography and Plays (1922). This volume is available as a free eBook online from Project Gutenberg at http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33403/33403-h/33403-h.htm

For a wild and wooly Dadaesque poetry experience check out Getrude Stein’s experimental volume of beautiful gibberish from 1914, Tender Buttons. Stein’s writing in this short, controversial book focuses intensely on the sounds and rhythms of words, rather than any concern about even tenuous connections to their possible referents in the world. This volume is also available as a free eBook from Project Gutenberg at http://www.gutenberg.org/files/15396/15396-h/15396-h.htm

-HMSHand-Engraved-L

Profile 1: HUGO BALL (1886-1927), Founding Member of the Zurich Dada Group

Photo-BallHugo-Cabaret Voltaire Performance-1916

I don’t want words that other people have invented. All the words are other people’s inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own. –H. Ball           (PictureQuotes.com)

Hand-Engraved-RBall’s lifelong search for philosophical meaning, borne of his strict Catholic childhood and adult rejection of modern language and its contexts (the politics of WWI among them) –  was represented by fellow founder, Richard Huelsenbeck’s claim that the two chose the term “Dada” from a German-French dictionary to imply baby talk.

Ball, formerly a theater director, established the Café Voltaire with singer Emmy Hennings, one of two female founders of Dada, as the venue for all manner of the group’s arts and entertainment.  Quite soon, however, he grew weary of the “increasing nonsense” among the members, and in 1916 withdrew to the Swiss countryside to recover from exhaustion. His latest in a lifetime of malaise was attributed to regression to his  traumatic childhood during his performance of his own genre, sound poetry, which catapulted him back to bleakness.  In 1917, against the proposed international growth of Dadaism, he left the group forever, and married Emmy Hennings three years later.  Soon and ironically, Ball also left his political fervor behind, to renew his Catholic connections. –MEK. Hand-Engraved-L

References:

http://www.visual-arts-cork.com/history-of-art/dada.htm

https://www.nga.gov/exhibitions/2006/dada/artists/ball.shtm

http://artdaily.com/news/83223/To-mark-100-years-of-the-Dada-movement–Kunsthaus-Z-rich-digitizes-Dada-collection;

http://www.dada-companion.com/ball/

Marie Osmond recites Ball’s 1916 poem, “Karawane” on Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

MetaDada Presents Recent Translations of Five Poems by Emmy Hennings

Poems translated from the German by William Seaton

 HenningsEmmy-Photo1

Hand-Engraved-RMetaDada No. 1 will include publication of five poems by Emmy Hennings, one of the original Zurich dadas, recently translated from the German by William Seaton. Seaton, author of Dada Poetry: An Introduction (Nirala Press, 2013), completed these translations subsequent to publication of his book. The volume features numerous other poems by Hennings, along with work by Hans Arp, Hugo Ball, and Richard Huelsenbeck. He notes that, “Hennings represents at once the swan song of an overripe German Romanticism and the furious explosive outburst of modernism.” Hennings’ poetry is an intense reflection of her personal experience, and her work is suffused with “a conviction of some intolerable derangement in things… linked with a nearly desperate eroticism, yet expressed with redemptive poise and precision,” as Seaton relates in his book (p. 47). MetaDada is delighted to be publishing these translations of verse by one of the Dada movement’s founding members. – MEK-HMS. Hand-Engraved-L

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William Seaton’s Dada Poetry: An Introduction includes poems by Dada founders Emmy Hennings, Richard Huelsenbeck, Hans Arp and Hugo Ball, along with Seaton’s substantial introductory essay, “An Introduction to Dada.”

 

01-Dada for Women

Untitled Visual Poem, John M. Bennett 2016

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Flesh Eclipsed, H. Michael Sanders, Visual Poem, 2015

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