#3: Joy.
The next batter is Jimi Hendrix. Jerry flashes two-two-one. That’s our sign for, shut the fuck up and just listen to this genius play the guitar. (“No No,” Kevin Maloney, Words & Sports.
There is an argument to be made that critically defining joy in literature is tough1. It shares a porous border with serenity, ecstasy, and exclamation. Like laughter, like a phantasmagorical skunk rummaging through our lives, it flees from a certain kind of exegesis. As well it should. You can consult other quick fire points of reference — like Ross Gay talking about how “It is joy by which the labor that will make the life that I want, possible” or Whitman reminding us that “If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles” — but to what end? Neither of these examples are necessarily your personal nebula-like structure by which these figurative stars are born. They are not — in and of themselves — the ‘generative environment.’
But there is a counter-argument to be made that joy in literature is remarkably easy to achieve — and that it’s an easy argument to make, too, because what is an aesthetic choice if not a decision inextricably bound up with a certain kind of joy? Creation is a gift. When we’re moved to sing along with a song, when we’re moved to surprised laughter at a decision made, when we underline sentences like —
Reluctantly, in a cloud of patchouli, Jason stepped out onto the sidewalk. (Pynchon, Inherent Vice)
or
Little half moons clustered underneath her cheekbones, like faint hoofmarks. (Morrison, Jazz)
or
In Paris we eat brains at night. (Moore, Who Will Run The Frog Hospital?)
— who are we in that moment if not ripples in the water returning to the stone?
Send it to me,
send it to me,
send it to me. (“Song for Two Phones,” Curtis D’Costa, Hobart)
A QUIET WEEK AT BUFFALO BUFFALO BUFFALO: numerous things are in the works, but you’ll have to sate yourselves with this wonderful conversation with Todd Dillard about three poems he wrote for HAD for now. (Don’t forget we’re always posting interesting things we find every day, too, like this terrific lecture Terrance Hayes gave in 2019.)
Consult the thesaurus of slaughter/consult the thesaurus of weeds/of fluorescent lights and forsythia /the opposite of night is not night. (“(FEVER) (ALLEYWAY) TEMPLATE,” Beth Gordon, HAD)
OF NOTE/UPCOMING:
The Review of Uncomtemporary Fiction is looking for submissions. You can learn more here.
“White Whale Bookstore and Radar Poetry Editors Rachel Marie Patterson and Dara-Lyn Shrager will be hosting a virtual launch event for Issue 30 of Radar Poetry [on July 15th.]”
“The 2021 X.J. Kennedy Poetry Prize is open for submissions!! Send us your best full-length poetry collection for a chance to win $10,000 and more! Rules and how to submit can be found here.” (via.)
How tough? Take a look at the quality of answers in this video from the Yale Center for Faith and Culture. They’re … not great.