“On the 60th Anniversary of the Killing of JFK”

a poem by Caud Sewer Bile

photo c/o New York Times

“ruthless men seek my life”                       
—King David, “Psalm 54”

Does anybody still believe, in ode or threnody,
Lee Harvey Oswald murdered John Fitzgerald Kennedy?
There was so much corruption in that so-called Camelot,
and false analysis done on the body that was shot.

Which members of the militant industrial complex
joined with police and secret service for such vile effects?
Which judges and which politicians were complicitous?
How many people in the world were duplicitous?

How many had to die to keep the cover-up in tact?
How much fake news flew through the mainstream media, in fact?
Who in the mafia, the FBI, and CIA,
were at the beck and call of ruthless men and LBJ?

XXX

(Caud Sewer Bile is a pen-name anagram for poet Bruce Dale Wise.)

Interview: Ali J. Prince


1.)  Can poetry sometimes be political?

Yes, it can. Moreover, I think it should be, especially in this age of preening self-examination exponentially fuelled by social media and other cyber monoliths. Poetry needs to find its external voice again, skewering governmental, religious, societal, and technological institutions, whether that be through satire or brusque invective. After the true poets, true artists, and true educators have liberated humankind from our present digital gulag, perhaps then we can return to the pastoral odes of yesteryear or the self-analysis of today. 

2.)  How, why, or when did you become a poet?

My first recollection of writing a poem was when I was eleven years old. It was called simply “England” and contained the lines “grey and unhappy, mentally ill/West Ham Three, Liverpool nil.” As to the why, I can only say that poetry seemed the most natural way of adding theatre to the mundanities and absurdities that have been and are peddled as acceptable existence. 

3.)  Name a few of your favorite poets.

I have always enjoyed Lawrence Ferlinghetti, especially his poems “I Am Waiting” and “Dog”. These poems are effused with a dramatic sense of urgency that naturally coalesces with my own temperament. I think in terms of visionary importance the illuminations of William Blake stand head and shoulders not just above the pre-Romantics, but the Romantics as well. One of my earliest and most influential encounters with poetry happened when I was a very young child. I was given a copy of The Breadhorse by the English poet Alan Garner. I was so obsessed with this illustrated children’s poem that I committed the entire thing to memory. 

NOW click on and read Ali’s new feature poem at New Pop Lit, “Slick.”

What’s the Matter with the National Book Awards?

Who is this person? (photo c/o Daily Press)

LOOK AT THE LIST of winners of the Fiction category of the National Book Awards, and the first five names you see– for 1950 to 1954– are all big ones, who wrote blockbuster books which grabbed public attention irrespective of awards: Nelson Algren, William Faulkner, James Jones, Ralph Ellison, Saul Bellow. Then, as you study the list, you realize something happened. A slow diminution in both status and renown. Either the list is reflective of the diminishing place of literature in the culture, or the National Book Foundation has been rewarding the wrong books. Or a combination of both.

Which raises the question: Why hold these awards? Why do these awards exist?

Like all such awards– see the Oscars– the purpose is or should be one of PR. To gain attention for the book industry, for authors, and for the art of literature. After all, it’s quite the swanky event, held every year at ultra-expensive restaurant Cipriani Wall Street located at the center of Big-Money Manhattan, which still leads the world– last time I checked– in number of billionaires. Is the lavish production worth it, when no one outside immediate relatives knows who the winners and their books are, either before or after the event?

(photo of Cipriani Wall Street c/o publishing perspectives)


Which is not a knock against this year’s Fiction winner, Justin Torres, or his experimental novel, Blackouts. The editors of New Pop Lit and Fast Pop Lit consider themselves experimental writers (experimental pop). We well know the struggle to have our efforts recognized in any shape or form. We might even accept (or might not, depending upon how broke we are that week) such an award ourselves, if it ever came around; which would most likely be after a nuclear holocaust. We know though the realities of the book business– and of literature itself, which is at as low a standing as it’s been since the invention of the novel in the early 1700’s. Amid the overwhelming noise of the rest of the culture, from sports to TV to movies to video and music downloads, the literary art raises scarcely a whisper. In effect, it’s a hand raised tentatively at the back of the room, with a weak voice stating, “We’re still here.”

Not good enough, in any respect.

But what do you think?

-KW

“House Concert” by James Croal Jackson

(THIRD OF THREE POEMS)

Anteater in an audience of

under-thirties. Metal microphone’s

demonic glint. Guitar on green

rack. Sad songs sing for

yellow-eyed grass to sway to.

Kill me, saccharine sugar. I

allowed myself to

undress my fur and

foreclaws.

Fire burns in the auburn

my species warned

against– a crowd of sadness

no nation’s a stranger to.


James Croal Jackson‘s first autumn 2023 poem for us was “Moment (October).”

His second autumn 2023 poem for us was “Fault.”

An Excerpt from “Slick” by Ali J. Prince

A SNEAK PREVIEW OF NEW POP LIT’S NEXT FEATURE

Tyranny doesn’t come in an App
We’ve seen it before

It’s got a moustache and a harsh pair of trousers
It’s old and cold and suffers in silence
All forbidding and grey and indiscriminate violence
It knocks on your door, at four, with a document

And smells of telephone wires and corridors, tobacco and damp pavement

It was in a film with the award-winning actor, he lost a stone to emote in a prison shirt
It was critically acclaimed so they put his hollow bones in a sepia toned aftershave advert

Tyranny doesn’t look like a gurning, groomed comedian

Who has emojis in his bio

And the gait of a hyperactive child

Coming Soon!

What’s Wrong with American Literature? Part One

NEEDED: An autopsy of American literature. An examination of problems from top to bottom. Not just of the top-heavy hierarchical machine which delivers the art, through various avenues, to the public, but of the art itself.

FIRST must come a recognition that the art in its various forms has problems. Novels, short stories, plays, poems, criticism. That it is in effect dead— or at least on life support.

PREMISE: That American literature was seized by postmodern scoundrels and thieves, who turned the art into this narrow, largely irrelevant piece of delicate historical pottery kept on a shelf in a dusty museum in an obscure corner of the cultural city opened for three hours twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. A living art needs to be necessary and vital and it needs to be among the people, part of their everyday myths and memories.

THIS POST is not meant to be pessimistic. On the contrary, it’s optimistic, because with a host of problems comes the opportunity to correct them. To put the literary art back on course, and in so doing, restore its rightful status– its central place in today’s culture.

HOW to do this will be the fun part.

-KW

Finding New Influences

HOW TO REVIVE AN ART

Winston Churchill, one of the first politicians to see the threat posed by an Austrian crackpot named Adolf, once said something to the effect that he could see farther into the future, because he looked further back into the past.

Following that strategy, searching for new influences and sources, I’ve been studying American cultural history of past decades. Current one examined: the 1930’s.

Which has led me to a uniquely overlooked novel: City for Conquest by Aben Kandel. A throwback to when novels were large of experience and passion, and attempted to encompass the world. Were critical standards different from what they are now (critics today favor inward-looking tomes of refined language), it might be considered one of the nation’s great novels, as it portrays the reality of America and its growth as well as any novel ever has. Instead, though, to know about the work, you have to find out about it by accident, inevitably by encountering the minimalist-by-comparison movie version. For the gatekeepers of “Literature-with-a-capital-L,” the novel might not be politically incorrect, but it’s stylistically unacceptable. Too raw. Too real.

The book is described in the Introduction to its latest printing as “vivid, overwrought, and melodramatic.”

My reaction: Awesome! This is exactly what the new novel will need to be to grab the attention of the unwary in this tumultuous, ultra-noisy civilization– every bit as noisy today near the end of 2023 as the way Kandel described it in 1937. I’m nine chapters into the book and it doesn’t disappoint. Its strengths adeptly utilized can be part of an upcoming and very necessary Culture Shock provided by never-before-seen kinds of literary products able to stand a once-great but currently-stagnant art form on its head.

Don’t bet against it.

-Karl Wenclas

The “Can’t Do This” People

(toy fort c/o Kid Eco)


WHO ARE the Can’t Do This People?

Answer: Today’s literary intelligentsia and their spokespersons, established literary critics. They’re like generals fighting a previous war, embedded in outmoded attitudes, waiting to be toppled by armies with new ideas and more aggressive tactics.

In short, they leave room for their predictably-positioned rigid regiments to be outflanked.

Room? Wide avenues on either side.

The self-appointed highbrows are terrified of any writing smacking of “masscult” or “midcult,” “middlebrow” (listen to your Virginia Woolf-schoolteacher lessons you studious play-the-game pupils)– or any writing which might potentially become– gasp!– popular! NO! Can’t have that.

Politics? Not.

Melodrama? OUT!

Plot? Complex structure? NO WAY!!

Which provides the simple answer to this question: How to reinvent the literary art? Be willing to try things which the designated literary experts are unwilling to try.

There they sit in their immobile fortress, unable to move. Can anyone knock the fortress down? Unlikely. But one can go around it– and leave its occupants behind, stuck in one spot.

(c/o Regal Toy Soldiers)

-KW

Narcissism Lit

ANOTHER IN A SERIES EXAMINING THE INSIDER LITERARY WORLD

(photo c/o Glamour magazine)

ONE OF the so-called Literary It Girls getting hyped by the decrepit remains of the Manhattan media machine is heiress Allie Rowbottom, author of a much-touted novel, Aesthetica. Yet more autofiction, by all accounts. A depiction of a narcissistic main character, and by extension, today’s culture. Newsflash: we already know about it, are bombarded by narcissism from every corner of electronic media. Do we really want to grovel in the book’s self-absorbed descriptions? A criticism of plastic surgery? Or a celebration of it?

Allie Rowbottom was most recently seen giving skin care advice in the pages of a Manhattan glamor magazine. She reveals she gets Botox injections, may be conflicted about the procedure and other procedures, but receives them anyway. America’s out-of-touch leisure class. Meanwhile, unhinged heavily-armed well-trained potential mass killers roam America from Maine to Texas, waiting to be triggered; wars break out across the globe; bad-guy authoritarians make moves to end any semblance of world peace; tech plutocrats become ever wealthier with new AI schemes (the wealth gap has never been greater) while more people who are unable to make rent or mortgage payments are thrown into the streets. 21st Century Chaos! But hey, Allie Rowbottom has a new novel out about one person’s obsession with her face– powers-that-be in the Insider Literary Realm expect us to run out and buy it.

Widen that wealth gap more? No thanks.

-KW