My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry

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My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry

by Jack Spicer, Peter Gizzi (Editor), Kevin Killian (Editor)

4.55 of 5 stars 4.55 · rating details · 401 ratings · 37 reviews

In 1965, when the poet Jack Spicer died at the age of forty, he left behind a trunkful of papers and manuscripts and a few copies of the seven small books he had seen to press. A West Coast poet, his influence spanned the national literary scene of the 1950s and '60s, though in many ways Spicer's innovative writing ran counter to that of his contemporaries in the New York...more

400 pages

Published November 30th 2008 by Wesleyan University Press

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Oct 18, 2012 Sigrun Hodne rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: favorites

Why I wanted to read Spicer?
What can I say?
Taste this:

Any fool can get into an ocean
Any fool can get into an ocean
But it takes a Goddess
To get out of one.
What’s true of oceans is true, of course,
Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming
Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweed
You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess
To get back out of them
Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly
Out in the middle of the poem
They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the
water...more

3 likes · like · see review

Apr 22, 2009 C.A. rated it 5 of 5 stars

Who the FUCK are these people giving this book less than 5 stars!!!?

Anyway, FOR CRIPES SAKE, if you're reading this and have never heard of Jack Spicer before, I wish I was YOU. Meaning I wish I could read these poems all over again like a pretty young virgin. I would LOVE to be Spicer's virgin, eager with spoon and knuckle, lopsided and cock-eyed from the strain of the constant WHACK deep into these poems!

WE OWE THE FUCKING WORLD TO GIZZI AND KILLIAN FOR THIS CHUNK OF PARADISE!

12 likes · like · see review

Dec 12, 2008 Brandon rated it 5 of 5 stars

Well. Look I don't even know what to say. Will the nearest people to Peter Gizzi and Kevin Killian please hug them. Will the nearest people to thirty dollars please hug this book. All people who have not read this book before one year has passed will not be my friends anymore.

2 likes · like · see review

Mar 26, 2013 matt rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: america-f-k-yeah, poetic-rapture

Very glad and grateful that my oldest friend (a pretty dynamite poet in his own right, as it happens) has worked and hung out with Peter Gizzi for a long time now, who happens to be one of the editors of this collection.

Spicer's a guy who, it seems, is just starting to really get his due. In his own lifetime, the poor guy was often reduced to penury and obscurity, aside from the recognition and respect of a few other mostly Berkeley-based poets and small-press publishers.

Throw in some alcoho...more

6 likes · like · see review

Sep 29, 2010 Ezra rated it 5 of 5 stars

growing up in berkeley, and having some adolescent interest in both romantic and modernist poetry, i should have heard of jack spicer. but i hadn't. i cannot explain this. anyways i ran into his poem "Orfeo" somewhere (on a fucking bus maybe ?!?!) and i immediately bought this on the internet. it is great. it is a collection of all JS's published poetry as well as a lot of notebook stuff; as with all such completist editions, it contains a lot of things that i'm sure the author would never have...more

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Apr 20, 2009 Ted Burke rated it 5 of 5 stars

My Vocabulary Did This to Me
The Collected Poems of Jack Spicer
Edited by Peter Gizzi and Kevin Killian
(Wesleyan)

I am just finishing the “must read” poetry volume of the year, “My Vocabulary Did this To Me”, an anticipated republication of the poems by the late Jack Spicer, edited by Peter Gizzi and Kevin Killian, and I have to admit that Spicer’s writing has me momentarily forgetting my prejudice against poems about poetry and poets and allowing myself to be knocked by the author’s third-rail wit...more

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Dec 26, 2012 cras culture added it

Shelves: poetry

i'm not giving this text a rating because one minute i felt very close to loving the text and then shortly thereafter somewhat exacerbated by the obtuse bitterness of it.
NEways, lets look at what Spicer is working with, in my opinion, since i've both read and listened to and really took to heart his lectures as a (slightly) younger poet. Spicer thinks of poetry as a series of, really, martian transmissions invading the poet's consciousness and compelling him to scribe these transmissions as po...more i'm not giving this text a rating because one minute i felt very close to loving the text and then shortly thereafter somewhat exacerbated by the obtuse bitterness of it.
NEways, lets look at what Spicer is working with, in my opinion, since i've both read and listened to and really took to heart his lectures as a (slightly) younger poet. Spicer thinks of poetry as a series of, really, martian transmissions invading the poet's consciousness and compelling him to scribe these transmissions as poem. He also has a penchant for believing that poetry could also be closely analogous to spooks, more specifically an infamous incident involving WB Yeats' wife, in which, on a train, Yeats' wife basically started going crazy or losing her shit or whatever and muttering and moaning then she began to speak. Yeats' asked his wife what kind of message these invading spooks' were here to deliver, and she replied 'we are here to give metaphors to your poetry'. So there you have it, poetry demons as a precursor to Yeats' wife (and others') psychosis. What this essentially means is that Spicer is viewing poetry as a force coming from the exterior, the outside and thus we are at the mercy of these transmissions instead of our own interior and ever-suffering, feeling and precious emotions. Does Spicer deliver on his maxim in his own poetry? Well, yes and no. There are a lot of poems in here that seem to be evident of Spicer's internal precious language, specifically dealing with lovers and bitterness. Yet even these are fragmented and somewhat cold, sarcastically analyzed. Then there are the fragments and calloused transcriptions, all over the place, from conversations, to baseball standings to crass paraphrasings of old texts like Sir Gawain and the Green Night or other such grail legends.
What Spicer wants to accomplish with all this is to make a poetry that is neither special nor underwhelming, to put it just so, at the level of lived consciousness. He mainly succeeds, the only pitfall for me is that his pervasive cynicism is less than becoming. Yet it's also authentic. However, we must ask ourselves, is his obtuseness also becoming of the level of consciousness and portrayal of the whiles of memory which Spicer is attempting to get across? Well once again, yes or no. He had some shining perfect lines in those poems, yet also lost me often with those previously described traits.
Yet one thing that does come across in this collection is a sense of authenticity. I can't describe it, but he definitely has his own voice. This collection is always interesting, sometimes conversational and dryly charming, sometimes so cynical almost to be unappealing. Definitely a worthwhile read, yet I found myself picking it up sometimes honestly not out of eagerness but out of dedication to my own little project of reading what is really a very interesting of the life project of one Jack Spicer. Still...(less)

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Aug 28, 2012 and rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: poetry

this book completely changed the way i think about reading and writing. at times this book was too weird for me, i found it uninviting- the metaphors are so strange and far-fetched that i couldn't get into them at all... but he tells us "it does not have to fit together. like the pieces of a totally unfinished jigsaw puzzle my grandmother left in the bedroom when she died in the living room." i couldn't understand why the hell spicer has caused such a fuss. but after giving it a good amount of t...more

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Dec 20, 2011 Joe rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: poetry

How could I give this 4 stars? Am I some kind of idiot? Well, I think this reflects my frustration with collecteds in general. This was my first introduction to Spicer and I was struck by how familiar his voice was to me already--filtered as it has been to various degrees through many, many contemporary voices via the speaky casualness of the line, the turns of the language into pranky nonsense, sharp juxtapositions between high and low speech -- "Dead branches. Leaves / unable even to grimly se...more

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Jun 03, 2010 Jason rated it 5 of 5 stars

Dear Lorca,

I would like to make poems out of real objects. The lemon to be a lemon that the reader could cut or squeeze or taste—a real lemon like a newspaper in a collage is a real newspaper. I would like the moon in my poems to be a real moon, one which could be suddenly covered with a cloud that has nothing to do with ithe poem—a moon utterly independent of images. The imagination pictures the real. I would like to point to the real, disclose it, to make a poem that has no sound in it but the...more Dear Lorca,

I would like to make poems out of real objects. The lemon to be a lemon that the reader could cut or squeeze or taste—a real lemon like a newspaper in a collage is a real newspaper. I would like the moon in my poems to be a real moon, one which could be suddenly covered with a cloud that has nothing to do with ithe poem—a moon utterly independent of images. The imagination pictures the real. I would like to point to the real, disclose it, to make a poem that has no sound in it but the pointing of a finger.

We have both tried to be independent of images ( you from the start and I only when I grew old enough to tire of trying to make things connect), to make things visible rather than to make pictures of them (phantasia not imaginari). How easy it is in erotic musings or in the truer imagination of a dream to invent a beautiful boy. How difficult to take a boy in a blue bathing suit that I have watched as casually as a tree and to make him visible in a poem as a tree is visible, not as an image or a picture but as something alive—caught forever in the structure of words. Live moons, live lemons, live boys in bathing suits. The poem is a collage of the real.

But things decay, reason argues. Real things become garbage. The piece of lemon you shellac to the canvas begins to develop a mold, the newspaper tells of incredibly ancient events in forgotten slang, the boy becomes a grandfather. Yes, but the garbage of the real still reaches out into the current world making its object s, in turn, visible—lemons calls to lemon, newspaper to newspaper, boy to boy. As things decay they bring their equivalents into being.

Things do not connect; they correspond. That is what makes it possible for a poet to translate real objects, to bring them across language as easily as he can bring them across time. That tree you saw in Spain is a tree I could never have seen in California, that lemon has a different smell and a different taste, BUT the answer is this—every place and every time has a real object to correspond with your real object—that lemon may become this lemon, or it may even become this piece of seaweed, or this particular color of gray in this ocean. One does not need to imagine that lemon; one needs to discover it.

Even these letters. They correspond with something (I don’t know what) that you have written (perhaps as unapparently as that lemon corresponds to this piece of seaweed) and, in turn, some future poet will write something which corresponds to them. That is how we dead men write to each other.

Love,
Jack

The important thing about this collection is that it is post-mortem. Peter Gizzi and Kevin Killian found the iceberg dipped beneath the rest of Spicer’s known works and exposed it: his correspondence to the dead before he died.

This was Spicer’s hologram before he became a ghost, and for that it all the more prescient. It is achieved with his being long gone and has so much more power as a memory than as active intuition. Here we have a lost poet, acknowledging himself as already lost, a live man in death’s palace. That’s why all the correspondences, all the elegies, all the references to Orpheus ring so true. He met Death and played cards.

What it resulted in was a beautiful clairvoyance, a smart, venereal reach into the esophagus of the forgotten that pulled out vital breath, smothered in dust, and revived it into Dionysian lovesongs:

“The Day Five Thousand Fish Died Along the Charles River”
And when the fish come in to die
They slap their heads against the rocks until they float
Downstream on one dead eye. From rocks
The Irish boys yell and throw rocks at them and beat them with their stick.
Gulls wheel in the fine sky. Tall as an ogre
God walks among the rocks. His angels cry,
“Yell and throw rocks at them and beat them with sticks!”
But watch those upturned eyes
That gleam like God’s own candles in the sun. Nothing
Deserves to live.

“Éternuement”

There is a beautiful world in a little girl’s body.
When I poke my fingers into her I can see it.
Or when the absurdity of the postman
Or the snow that won’t stay still on the ground
Or the queers with painted noses that walk together in the Bois
Or the birds
When I poke my fingers into them I can see it
When I poke my fingers into them I can see it.

There is something oddly responsible about this mission. I met the two editors in Iowa right after the book was published and they couldn’t stop talking about the discovery of all of Spicer’s old works. The archives! It was an extrication, like an archeological dig. They had submerged into the lair of a bone dry New York Attic and found the last gold strings of Hammurabai. It is them, dipping their hands into the furls of Spicer’s corpse, that like Spicer does with his letters to Lorca, tries to achieve the same thing. Reactivation, the ouija board of the cerebellum, pulling out all the wonders of the ancient world and letting them spill; poetry as memory:

Any fool can get into an ocean
But it takes a Goddess
To get out of one.
What’s true of oceans is true, of course,
Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming
Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweed
You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess
To get back out of them
Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly
Out in the middle of the poem
They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the water hardly moves
You might get out through all the waves and rocks
Into the middle of the poem to touch them
But when you’ve tried the blessed water long
Enough to want to start backward
That’s when the fun starts
Unless you’re a poet or an otter or something supernatural
You’ll drown, dear. You’ll drown
Any Greek can get you into a labyrinth
But it takes a hero to get out of one
What’s true of labyrinths is true of course
Of love and memory. When you start remembering.

I like Spicer’s poetry because it is agonizing in its reach for another time. He wants too badly to not only be ancient Greek, but to be a deity. And not only a deity, but a tragic deity:

Then I, a singer and hunter, fished
In streams too deep for love.
A god grew there, a god grew there,
A wet and weblike god grew there.
Mella, mella peto
In medio flumine.
His flesh is honey and his bones are made
Of brown, brown sugar and he is a god.
He is a god.
I know he is a god.
Mella, mella peto
In medio flumine.
Drink wine, I sang, drink cold red wine.
Grow liquid, spread yourself.
O bruise yourself, intoxicate yourself.
Dilute yourself.
You want to web the rivers of the world.
You want to glue the tides together with yourself.
You look so innocent—
Water wouldn’t melt in your mouth.
I looked and saw him weep a honey tear.
I, Orpheus, had raised a water god
That wept a honey tear.
Mella, mella peto
In medio flumine.

His existence as a poet is predicated on the fallen, the emerging sadistic calm of no company, no actual physicality to his contact. It is very sullen, very sad. And yet spirtual, awakening, serene; like quiet is: Later he would remember all those dead voices / And call them Eurydice.

There is a magical quality to this exchange (…living to dead once living to dead once living), it is a conversation that is channeled through assumptions and growth, something akin to fermentation. It is, in essence, responding. So to contribute quotes to dead men is in a way false and superficial, it is also enabling. Spicer covers this journey in his letters, his exchanges, even the objects change. The seagulls, the greenness of the ocean, the fish—they become things to be traded for a smile or the sound of conversation—counters rather than objects. Nothing matters except the big lie of the personal—the lie in which these objects do not believe.

It is the flowing dispelling of an idea which is transferred, in the way the poet says he is more of a conductor, so Spicer illuminates past rhythms as these editors (Gizzi and Killian) arranged and published Spicer’s ancient texts to be made into new songs, maybe anachronistic, but then for all the better, all the more magically. Here: they describe Spicer’s favoring of Blaser’s description of the serial poem as akin to being in a dark house, where you throw a light on in a room, then turn it off, and enter the next room, where you turn on a light, and so on. This movement from room to room in an architectural structure makes sense if you think of “stanza” as coming from the Italian for “small room.” As his poetry moves from dark room to dark room, each flash of illumination leaves an afterimage on the imagination, and the lines of the poem become artifacts of an ongoing engagement with larger forces.

Spicer was a social poet, who like Frank O’hara made the society of poets, especially gay poets, that much more alive by swooping around, faery-boys, creating new mentions, exactions considering poetry. I like this set of laws he made with James Alexander:

When James Alexander came back to California he and the other poet who exists in the universe formulated a series of true propositions:

THAT POETRY ALONE CAN LOVE POETRY
THAT POEMS CRY OUT TO EACH OTHER FROM A GREAT DISTANCE
THAT POETS, BEING BASTARD FATHERS, LOVE EACH OTHER LIKE BASTARD FATHERS WHEN THEY SEE THEIR CHILDREN PLAYING TOGETHER
THAT POEMS PLAY TOGETHER FROM A GREAT DISTANCE

It was made illegal for a bachelor to watch poems.

But none of this would have worked if Spicer didn’t have an ear. If he didn’t know how to write. Here are a couple poems “The ballad of escape” and “Imaginary Elegies”

I have become lost many times along the ocean
With my ears filled with newly cut flowers
With my tongue full of loving and agony
I have become lost many times along the ocean
Like I lose myself in the hearts of some boys.

There is no night in which, giving a kiss,
One does not feel the smiles of the faceless people
And there is no one in touching something recently born
Who can quite forget the motionless skulls of horses.

Because the roses always search in the forehead
For a hard landscape of bone
And the hands of a man have no other purpose
Than to be like the roots that grow beneath the wheat-fields.

Like I lose myself in the hearts of some boys
I have become lost many times along the ocean
Along the vastness of water I wander searching
An end to the lives that have tried to complete me

***

Light is a carrion crow
Cawing and swooping. Cawing and swooping.
Then, then there is a sudden stop.
The day changes.
There is an innocent old sun quite cold in cloud.
The ache of sunshine stops.
God is gone. God is gone.
Nothing was quite as good.
It’s getting late. Put on your coat.
It’s getting dark. It’s getting cold.
Most things happen in twilight
When the sun goes down and the moon hasn’t come
And the earth dances.
Most things happen in twilight
When neither eye is open
And the earth dances.
Most things happen in twilight
When the earth dances
And God is blind as a gigantic bat.
The boys above the swimming pool receive the sun.
Their groins are pressed against the warm cement.
They look as if they dream. As if their bodies dream.
Rescue their bodies from the poisoned sun,
Shelter the dreamers. They’re like lobsters now
Hot red and private as they dream.
They dream about themselves.
They dream of dreams about themselves.
They dream they dream of dreams of themselves.
Splash them with twilight like a wet bat.
Unbind the dreamers.
Poet,
Be like God.

***

Dear Robin,

That is why all the stuff from the past (except the Elegies and Troilus) looks foul to me. The poems belong nowhere. They are one night stands filled (the best of them) with their own emotions, but pointing nowhere, as meaningless as sex in a Turkish bath. It was not my anger or my frustration that got in the way of my poetry but the fact that I viewed each anger and each frustration as unique—something to be converted into poetry as one would exchange foreign money. I learned this from the English department (and from the English Department of the spirit—that great quagmire that lurks at the bottom of us all) and it ruined ten years of my poetry. Look at those other poems. Admire them if you like. They are beautiful but dumb.

Poems should echo and re-echo against one each other. They should create resonances. They cannot live alone any more than we can.

So don’t send the box of old poetry to Don Allen. Burn it or rather open it with Don and cry over the possible books that were buried in it, the Songs Against Apollo, the Gallery of Gorgeous Gods, the Drinking Songs--all incomplete, all abortive—all incomplete, all abortive because I though, like all abortionists, that what is not perfect had no real right to live.

Things fit together. We knew that—it is the principle of magic. Two inconsequential things can combine together to become a consequence. This is true of poems too. A poem is never to be judged by itself alone. A poem is never by itself alone.

This is the most important letter that you have ever received.

Love,
Jack
(less)

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Jan 28, 2013 Wendy rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: poetry

I wasn't familiar with the poetry of Jack Spicer, so this has been a treat. Take a look especially at "After Lorca," in which he invents a letter from Lorca (actually a forward that Lorca is supposed to have written), as well as letters to Lorca and "translations" of Lorca poems. Read too his "Letter to Robin" in "Admonitions," in which he calls for poetry that's connected, poems that "echo and re-echo" against each other rather than individual lonely lyrics.

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Feb 15, 2009 Carmen Montopoli rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: poetry

This is great poetry. It's all (well not all, but largely) about how annoying it is to write, how the words are mortal enemies sometimes, and how it never works out like you plan. About the irritating beauty in it.

I wish I could talk to Spicer, for ten minutes. Or more accurately, commiserate with him. He seems like a guy I'd like.

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Dec 05, 2010 James Debruicker rated it 5 of 5 stars

I picked this up EXCLUSIVELY on the basis of the title, and was pleasantly surprised. Some funny poems, some sad poems, some really experimental poems, and a wonderfully confused letter from Lorca. Definitely worth checking out.

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Mar 01, 2012 Mike O'shaughnessy rated it 4 of 5 stars

Extraordinary, prescient poetry. Colorful, self-aware and sure. He seemed to have emerged in full bloom from a crack in the sidewalk.

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Nov 30, 2008 Adam Fitzgerald rated it 3 of 5 stars

Okay, so I find a few of Spicer's lyrics gorgeous, but he doesn't seem to be a poet well treated by being read in bulk.

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Nov 27, 2008 Charles rated it 5 of 5 stars Recommends it for: anyone with an open mind about poetry

What a service Peter Gizzi and Kevin Killian had done. A joy and education to re-read Spicer in this terrific volume!

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Apr 03, 2010 Ronald rated it 5 of 5 stars

How Ginsberg was influenced by Jack Spicer becomes obvious after reading this collection.

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Oct 01, 2009 helen rated it 5 of 5 stars

i'm still learning how to read poetry and can have trouble getting into sometimes, this book made it easy though. cynical and gorgeous.

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Aug 06, 2011 David Harrison rated it 5 of 5 stars

A book that gives back with every reread.

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Jan 11, 2009 Julian rated it 4 of 5 stars

I am just starting it but how did Spicer get overlooked?
His work is beautiful - much better, accessible, real, ... than almost all of his contemporaries.

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Feb 22, 2011 rachel misfiticus rated it 4 of 5 stars

Famous last words.

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Sep 21, 2009 Lucas rated it 4 of 5 stars

Looooove it!

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May 25, 2009 Ryan rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: poetry

Once Spicer's voice gets in yr head, it is impossible to get out.

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Jun 08, 2009 Jay rated it 5 of 5 stars

This guy is weirder than he reads at first. His poems, really, are as lyrical and joy-
and loss-driven as any great poet's, but his interior patterning-- his dream-
language-- was morphemes and phonemes, rather than stone and river. He found
by pure feel what language poets and ethnopoetics poets and Black Mountaineeers
found by theory or by less humble interior journeys. The whole set called Homage
to Creeley and the one called Language completely flattened me. Wonderful.

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Oct 23, 2009 zeb rated it 3 of 5 stars

As with most complete collections, there's good and there's bad. I liked Dillinger and The Grail.

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Jul 15, 2009 Pss rated it 5 of 5 stars

http://loadsoflearnedlumber.blogspot....

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Jan 20, 2013 Craig rated it 5 of 5 stars

oh my god

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Jan 22, 2009 Laura rated it 5 of 5 stars

i don't care if it's the It book, it's gooooood.

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Sep 04, 2009 Chris rated it 5 of 5 stars

There aren't many books you should absolutely own, but this is one of them.

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Nov 08, 2008 Mary marked it as to-read

Robert and I just got to peak through this fresh from the printers at Peter's house and it is great! I'm especially excited about his letters that have been included and so many gorgeous poems that are not anywhere else. Lovely!

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About Jack Spicer

Jack Spicer (January 30, 1925 - August 17, 1965) was an American poet often identified with the San Francisco Renaissance. In 2009, My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer won the American Book Award for poetry.

Spicer was born in Los Angeles, where he later graduated from Fairfax High School in 1942, and attended the University of Redlands from 1943-45. He spent most of h...more

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The House That Jack Built: The Collected Lectures

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“At least we both know how shitty the world is. You wearing a
beard as a mask to disguise it. I wearing my tired smile. I
don't see how you do it. One hundred thousand university
students marching with you. Toward
A necessity which is not love but is a name. ” — 6 people liked it

“In hell it is difficult to tell people from other people.” — 3 people liked it

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