Backlist Bulletin #6: NETS
NETS is not strictly an erasure, so much as an idea of an erasure. The title is taken from inside the letters “The Sonnets of William Shakespeare.” Each numbered piece in the book offers a Shakespeare sonnet in pale gray text, almost melting into the page, with some words Jen Bervin has selected in full black. So the erasure exists but the source text is still discernible. In the “working note” which closes the book, Bervin states her aim of making the language “open, porous, possible,” also saying “when we write poems, the history of poetry is with us.”
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The first thing I think when I hear the word erasure is Mark Doty’s banger, “Homo Will Not Inherit.” Published during the mid-late years of the AIDS crisis, it opens with a description of New York City, arriving at a xeroxed picture of jesus taped up in public space, with “homo will not inherit; repent and be saved” written on it in marker. The speaker responds repetitively to this attempted warning. In one iteration, he says;
I’ll tell you what I’ll inherit:
stupidity, erasure, exile
In a poem that finds a lot of fierce delight in queerness, this stays with me like a hook. The inheritance, which is our pain on the cultural, heritable level. The inheritance which is the queer condition of being erased, being unremembered, or remembered wrongly. In a poem which, by and large, is celebratory, I am haunted by this moment.
Claiming literary techniques as queer can be sloppy and counterproductive, at times, but it is also very satisfying. So I’d like to claim erasure as queer.
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Another thing I like to claim as queer is all Shakespeare (fight me.) I could talk for a long time about the sonnets as queer texts, and about contemporary gender nonconforming queer writers like Julian Talamanetz Brolaski or Jos Charles who implement ornate, archaic language in parts of their work. Literature is one of the ways I know we have always existed.
I realize that enjoying classical trappings, and specifically liking Shakespeare, is not an original position. What I’m getting at is that people talk a lot about the continued relevance of Shakespeare without acknowledging that there is at this point a vast cultural apparatus propping up his relevance. It’s like the ur-version of complaints about remakes and sequels on successful movie franchises. There is a lot of work that probably never gets made because we are all still gagging over Shakespeare’s relevance. (I admit I’m thinking more of theater than poetry.) I’m saying I’m ambivalent about the choice of the sonnets as a source text for erasure, and even having spent some time with the book, I am still not sure about it. Is it the clearest text, for Bervin, for this project of illuminating the presence of a history of literature within the present?
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What is interesting (and very queer) about erasure is that it contains, inherently, a question of which text is the true text. Is the original the truth? Or did the original contain and obscure some deeper reality which the erasure made visible?
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Why erasure? Does erasure have inherent qualities? Is it easier to erase than to generate? Certainly it feels game-like, math-like, as though it sits in another part of the brain. Is erasure an act of creation, distinct from writing?
I’ve read some erasures that feel successful that are mostly strange-making or whimsical. I’m thinking mostly of Matthea Harvey and Amy Jean Porter’s collaboration Of Lamb.
But beyond the surreal or disruptive possibilities of the form, erasure is political. There’s this great Solmaz Sharif essay about that. Erasure occurs in the non-literary sense of the world, all around us. There’s active erasure, and erasures of selective attention. Some news is not news, some voices are not voices. There are structures for archiving and validating peoples’ stories which constantly erase entire perspectives, entire lives, from the record.
Erasure is political and as such can sometimes be corrective. A couple years ago New Republic put together a piece about the movement towards erasure poetry under Trump, some need emerging for a reclamation or recontextualizing of language, faced with the illogic and malice embedded in the administration’s rhetoric. I know of two writer-artists (Erin Mizrahi and Isobel O’Hare) who are making erasure poetry from #metoo celebrity apology letters. Or Chase Beggrun’s book RED. RED is taken from Bram Stoker’s Dracula as NETS is taken from the Sonnets of William Shakespeare. Chase’s project feels clear and specific, in how it relates to the source text — where the original was a story about monsters, male heroes, and woman-victims, in RED it is a woman who acts, pursuing and being pursued by husbands and monsters. It is a book about trans identity which never needs to argue about trans identity. It simply finds itself, existing within the flesh of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, like a figure inside a sculptor’s stone.
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There are many beautiful moments in NETS. With the original Sonnets present as a ghost-bolster, it is easy to see beautiful things, easy to appreciate the sparseness Bervin can create from those compact, lush texts. But the most impactful single poem, for me, is not in that category. It is this:
NETS came out in 2004. The Sonnets were published in 1609. In art the specific brings the general to life, which also contains the possibility of alienation, of staying too opaquely inside of the present and making work which fails the test of time. In this poem, the potential for making work against the backdrop of history comes alive for me. In this poem I understand why this project is necessary, why Bervin needs access to a canonical, larger-than-life, ancestral vocabulary for her own experience.
— C. Bain
NETS is available directly through Ugly Duckling Presse (here), through our Partner Bookstores (here), and through Small Press Distribution (here). Purchases made directly through Ugly Duckling Presse on January 24 are 50% off, use discount code DISAPPEAR at checkout.
The backlist bulletin is a column on titles from UDP’s back catalogue, curated and written by Apprentices.
