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Materialism
Book description to come.
- GenresPoetry
146 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1993
6 people are currently reading
114 people want to read
About the author
Jorie Graham
61 books172 followersJorie Graham was born in New York City in 1950, the daughter of a journalist and a sculptor. She was raised in Rome, Italy and educated in French schools. She studied philosophy at the Sorbonne in Paris before attending New York University as an undergraduate, where she studied filmmaking. She received an MFA in poetry from the University of Iowa.
Graham is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently: Place (2012), Sea Change (2008), Overlord (2005), Never (2002), Swarm (2001), The Errancy (1997), and The Dream of the Unified Field: Selected Poems 1974-1994, which won the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
Her many honors include a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Fellowship and the Morton Dauwen Zabel Award from The American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters.
She has taught at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop and is currently the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard University. She served as a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets from 1997 to 2003.
Graham is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently: Place (2012), Sea Change (2008), Overlord (2005), Never (2002), Swarm (2001), The Errancy (1997), and The Dream of the Unified Field: Selected Poems 1974-1994, which won the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
Her many honors include a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Fellowship and the Morton Dauwen Zabel Award from The American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters.
She has taught at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop and is currently the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard University. She served as a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets from 1997 to 2003.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
September 16, 2016
دوستانِ گرانقدر، کتاب هایی را با موضوعِ «ماتریالیسم» بررسی نمودم... ولی به عقیدهٔ من، این کتاب بهتر از سایرِ کتب در این زمینه بوده است، چراکه کتاب هایِ دیگر، بیشتر به جنجالِ «ماتریالیسم » و «ایدهآلیسم » پرداختند... در صورتی که این کتاب بیشتر به مفهوم «ماتریالیسم» اشاره نموده و وارد شاخه های دیگر نشده است... چنانچه علاقه به شناختِ صحیح از «ماتریالیسم» دارید، و یا به صورت تخصصی میخواهید این موضوع را مورد بررسی قرار دهید، من این کتاب را سفارش میکنم
البته ممکن است کمی برایتان خسته کننده باشد
<پیروز باشید و ایرانی>
البته ممکن است کمی برایتان خسته کننده باشد
<پیروز باشید و ایرانی>
January 9, 2010
Jorie's talent is undeniable, but I'll admit that I'm appreciating her work less and less as time goes on. The self-conscious lineation and (especially) the inexplicable enjambment seem more difficult to justify as I read (in some cases re-read) her books now. A greater concern is the surfeit of adjectives and adjectival phrases--such a morass of description as to create myriad self-cancellations and contradictions. In just five lines of the first stanza of the first poem in "Materialism" Graham describes "leaves" with all of the following adjectives or adjectival phrases: 1) "last year's"; 2) "unstuck"; 3) "rippling suddenly"; 4) having previously rippled (through use of "again"); 5) "illus(ory)"; 6) "carried"; 7) "twirling"; 8) "shiny"; 9) having previously been shiny (through use of "again"); 10) "fat"; 11) "bobbing"; 12) "circling in little suctions"; 13) "stiff"; 14) "presen(t)"; 15) located "on the surface"; 16) capable of "compel(ling)." Mind you, this is a single set of leaves. In a lyric-discursive aesthetic where the image is the primary engine of the poem, it is unforgivable to so over-describe the object as to render it incapable of being visualized. As avid a poetry reader as I am, I can't carry in my head (and wonder who could) a coherent image of leaves which are (in effect) "year-old, unstuck, rippling, surprising, illusory, borne, twirling, shiny, renewed, fat, bobbing, circling, stiff, present..." Really? They're "rippling" and also "stiff"? Being "carried" along but also "bobbing" in place? So light as to "twirl" but also "fat"?
The problem is endemic, and it would be endemic even if we restrained ourselves to descriptions of *leaves*. In the first 11 lines of the second poem in this volume, leaves are 1) "(in a) veil"; 2) being "suctioned"; 3) aloft; 4) capable of "fidelity"; 5) "magenta"; 6) "hovering"; 7) a singular "thing that happens"; 8) moving "slowly"; 9) "upswirling"; 10) located "above the driveway"; 11) "soft red"; 12) "updrafting"; 13) moving "without hesitation"; and 14) "aswirl." What's the reader to do? Picture leaves that are both (reddish-purplish) "magenta" and also (equally) "soft red"? That are moving "slowly" but are also "aswirl, updrafting, suctioned"? That are "a veil (that is lifting up)" but are also, with less motion (indeed none at all) "hovering"? The image again becomes incoherent, and thus the rhetoric that hangs upon the images in these poems like a coat-hanger on a rack becomes incoherent also. And the narrative the poems imply (as an implied narrative, though in some instances the narrative is in fact quite traditional) dissipates. With such fractured, self-canceling/self-contradictory imagery the one charity a reader might expect from the poem relates to its "immediate" form: i.e., that it will be a counter-weight to the self-indulgent mess of the transcendent visuals. In fact it is the opposite: the form frustrates, but without any evident purpose and to no evident effect. The enjambment here is as aggressive, self-conscious, and lightly-managed as one will find in contemporary poetry.
To be clear, I don't find Graham difficult--but that's *despite* Graham's craft, and her aesthetic, not because of it. These poems are trying as valiantly as they can to hollow out or cannibalize their own aesthetic--to use imagery in a way that suggests imagery is beside the point, to speak discursively in a way that suggests discursiveness is beside the point, all of which would be fine (even expected) in the postmodernist mode, except that here all is done with such portentousness (especially as found in the vehicle of form) as to make one suspect that in fact the project of these poems is not consistent with the poems as they sit on the page, that this is not a realized aesthetic vision but rather one noteworthy (and capable of discussion) primarily in the terms its failures have set out for us.
All of the above said, this is, after all, a three-star review--"I liked it"-- so it's important to say, too, that the question of whether these poems' functionality is deliberate is somewhat beside the point. The collection is called "Materialism," and "Steering Wheel" (for instance) contains the lines, "...there are, there really are, / things in the world, you must believe me," so by hook or by crook this collection *is* putting at stake, and problematizing, the presumptions of the Objectivists (and perhaps Modernism generally) that the object can ever be seen. That these poems beg for more careful editing and are so straight-faced that they do not particularly allow, facially, for the sort of self-critique the poem's failures would seem to render necessary, does not make the collection any less interesting as an artifact. Besides which, Graham has a rhythm that is all her own, an over-punctuation that is so antithetical to (say) the views of an idiosyncratic writer like Cormac McCarthy that it must be said to be her special province. And few poets can make such claims on any one aesthetic bent. Graham's failures are more interesting than nearly everyone else's successful reifications of their own desired forms, philosophies, and aesthetics. Graham initiates a conversation (or did, with her early work, such as "Materialism") that is important. She wasn't the perfect messenger--who is, and when?--but her work is alive with thought, lush with sound, and if it doesn't all cohere, well, neither did Pound's Cantos, by self-admission.
The problem is endemic, and it would be endemic even if we restrained ourselves to descriptions of *leaves*. In the first 11 lines of the second poem in this volume, leaves are 1) "(in a) veil"; 2) being "suctioned"; 3) aloft; 4) capable of "fidelity"; 5) "magenta"; 6) "hovering"; 7) a singular "thing that happens"; 8) moving "slowly"; 9) "upswirling"; 10) located "above the driveway"; 11) "soft red"; 12) "updrafting"; 13) moving "without hesitation"; and 14) "aswirl." What's the reader to do? Picture leaves that are both (reddish-purplish) "magenta" and also (equally) "soft red"? That are moving "slowly" but are also "aswirl, updrafting, suctioned"? That are "a veil (that is lifting up)" but are also, with less motion (indeed none at all) "hovering"? The image again becomes incoherent, and thus the rhetoric that hangs upon the images in these poems like a coat-hanger on a rack becomes incoherent also. And the narrative the poems imply (as an implied narrative, though in some instances the narrative is in fact quite traditional) dissipates. With such fractured, self-canceling/self-contradictory imagery the one charity a reader might expect from the poem relates to its "immediate" form: i.e., that it will be a counter-weight to the self-indulgent mess of the transcendent visuals. In fact it is the opposite: the form frustrates, but without any evident purpose and to no evident effect. The enjambment here is as aggressive, self-conscious, and lightly-managed as one will find in contemporary poetry.
To be clear, I don't find Graham difficult--but that's *despite* Graham's craft, and her aesthetic, not because of it. These poems are trying as valiantly as they can to hollow out or cannibalize their own aesthetic--to use imagery in a way that suggests imagery is beside the point, to speak discursively in a way that suggests discursiveness is beside the point, all of which would be fine (even expected) in the postmodernist mode, except that here all is done with such portentousness (especially as found in the vehicle of form) as to make one suspect that in fact the project of these poems is not consistent with the poems as they sit on the page, that this is not a realized aesthetic vision but rather one noteworthy (and capable of discussion) primarily in the terms its failures have set out for us.
All of the above said, this is, after all, a three-star review--"I liked it"-- so it's important to say, too, that the question of whether these poems' functionality is deliberate is somewhat beside the point. The collection is called "Materialism," and "Steering Wheel" (for instance) contains the lines, "...there are, there really are, / things in the world, you must believe me," so by hook or by crook this collection *is* putting at stake, and problematizing, the presumptions of the Objectivists (and perhaps Modernism generally) that the object can ever be seen. That these poems beg for more careful editing and are so straight-faced that they do not particularly allow, facially, for the sort of self-critique the poem's failures would seem to render necessary, does not make the collection any less interesting as an artifact. Besides which, Graham has a rhythm that is all her own, an over-punctuation that is so antithetical to (say) the views of an idiosyncratic writer like Cormac McCarthy that it must be said to be her special province. And few poets can make such claims on any one aesthetic bent. Graham's failures are more interesting than nearly everyone else's successful reifications of their own desired forms, philosophies, and aesthetics. Graham initiates a conversation (or did, with her early work, such as "Materialism") that is important. She wasn't the perfect messenger--who is, and when?--but her work is alive with thought, lush with sound, and if it doesn't all cohere, well, neither did Pound's Cantos, by self-admission.
August 18, 2025
I'm back....
No but after returning from a long holiday in Amman and Palestine I felt refreshed to read one of Jorie Graham's most cerebral (or at least I think so:0) books. For the past few weeks I've been alternating between anxious diarrhea and peripheral existentialist abstraction. Syllabus writing ha really eaten away at my sense of pride. I'm worried about my ability to generate creativity given my anxious-avoidant attachment style to education. Guess we will find out!
Maybe it's just me but it feels a little bit like love is in the air. All the fat bees flying around is filling me with a tenderness I felt a little incapable of for a while now. Of course I have my moments of desire, but this feels a little more peaceful. I feel like I could quietly raise a child in the mountains, returning to the local village grocery store every Friday to pick up fresh cream and cheese for my daughter. I'm not in and out though, I say hi in a very friendly way to everyone. We smile at each other with a level of intimacy that doesn't feel forced. I felt that way in my real life. I smiled at the waitress at BlueBirds in a way that felt really real and not just something oozing out of me. It eliminated some shame. Anyway, my daughter and I sometimes sit under a large tree while the wind blows our hair around briefly and the sun beats down on us. It's a pleasant heat and not too humid. Later I'll read some high-level texts though at night at my study. Hair pulled back in a loose bun while I lean over with concerted effort. Ink on my fingers from intense scribbling. The lamp at the table is bright yellow. It's past time for bed and when I look over my little daughter is asleep, her hair unplaited and her nightdress flooding her tiny body. It's too hot for even our thinnest blankets tonight, so she's sleeping sprawled and open on the cot in the corner. She had been watching me read before falling asleep, facing me still. The remnants of a cup of strongly brewed black tea are next to me as is a short metal tin of milk I had poured half of into my cup. It's unclear what my job is but I'm clearly very dedicated to its scholarship. But that's later. Right now I'm reading something easy pressed against the scraggly tree while my daughter giggles at something happening in her own stories. Self-consciously I think the phrase "parallel play" and a small sadness lights up in my chest, but i look over at her and smile gently without her noticing. Have I brought her too much into my world? Am I enough of a companion for her? In rejecting romantic love, have I doomed her to a fate of loneliness? Hmmm, I dunno.
I usually think that I like Jorie's thoughts on poetry more than her actual poems (with a few very strong exceptions of some truly fantastic poems) but what's nice about these poems in this book is that they are philosophical and talk-y ina way that feels sometimes too far for a poem. It makes me feel better about my inclinations, which are often to "instruct" in poetry. I like the complexities that she imagines though, it is not a simple world of winners and losers. There are gradients to loss. She steps into stories of the past. She is not self-conscious either, to talk directly to philosophers, writers of importance, and to speak in character in the real terrors of past violence. "Annunciation with a Bullet in it" feels particularly this way. Maybe this is the changing times, but to write something similar... I don't know if I have the balls.
No but after returning from a long holiday in Amman and Palestine I felt refreshed to read one of Jorie Graham's most cerebral (or at least I think so:0) books. For the past few weeks I've been alternating between anxious diarrhea and peripheral existentialist abstraction. Syllabus writing ha really eaten away at my sense of pride. I'm worried about my ability to generate creativity given my anxious-avoidant attachment style to education. Guess we will find out!
Maybe it's just me but it feels a little bit like love is in the air. All the fat bees flying around is filling me with a tenderness I felt a little incapable of for a while now. Of course I have my moments of desire, but this feels a little more peaceful. I feel like I could quietly raise a child in the mountains, returning to the local village grocery store every Friday to pick up fresh cream and cheese for my daughter. I'm not in and out though, I say hi in a very friendly way to everyone. We smile at each other with a level of intimacy that doesn't feel forced. I felt that way in my real life. I smiled at the waitress at BlueBirds in a way that felt really real and not just something oozing out of me. It eliminated some shame. Anyway, my daughter and I sometimes sit under a large tree while the wind blows our hair around briefly and the sun beats down on us. It's a pleasant heat and not too humid. Later I'll read some high-level texts though at night at my study. Hair pulled back in a loose bun while I lean over with concerted effort. Ink on my fingers from intense scribbling. The lamp at the table is bright yellow. It's past time for bed and when I look over my little daughter is asleep, her hair unplaited and her nightdress flooding her tiny body. It's too hot for even our thinnest blankets tonight, so she's sleeping sprawled and open on the cot in the corner. She had been watching me read before falling asleep, facing me still. The remnants of a cup of strongly brewed black tea are next to me as is a short metal tin of milk I had poured half of into my cup. It's unclear what my job is but I'm clearly very dedicated to its scholarship. But that's later. Right now I'm reading something easy pressed against the scraggly tree while my daughter giggles at something happening in her own stories. Self-consciously I think the phrase "parallel play" and a small sadness lights up in my chest, but i look over at her and smile gently without her noticing. Have I brought her too much into my world? Am I enough of a companion for her? In rejecting romantic love, have I doomed her to a fate of loneliness? Hmmm, I dunno.
I usually think that I like Jorie's thoughts on poetry more than her actual poems (with a few very strong exceptions of some truly fantastic poems) but what's nice about these poems in this book is that they are philosophical and talk-y ina way that feels sometimes too far for a poem. It makes me feel better about my inclinations, which are often to "instruct" in poetry. I like the complexities that she imagines though, it is not a simple world of winners and losers. There are gradients to loss. She steps into stories of the past. She is not self-conscious either, to talk directly to philosophers, writers of importance, and to speak in character in the real terrors of past violence. "Annunciation with a Bullet in it" feels particularly this way. Maybe this is the changing times, but to write something similar... I don't know if I have the balls.
November 14, 2020
I <3 jorie graham
June 8, 2011
Wonderful.
Read
January 25, 2013811.54 G739m 1993
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews