The dissenting voice
of Monica S. Kuebler
By Sheila OıHearn
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"And when you show me a man who expresses himself perfectly I will not say that he is not great, but I will say that I am unattracted . . . I miss the cloying qualities. When I reflect that the task, which the artist implicitly sets himself, is to overthrow existing values, to make of the chaos about him an order which is his own, to sow strife and ferment so that by the emotional release those who are dead may be restored to life, then it is that I run with joy to the great and imperfect ones, their confusion nourishes me, their stuttering is like divine music to my ears." |
| So sayeth the infamous author Henry Miller in Tropic of Cancer,
a notion I would say applies aptly when experiencing a perormance
by poet-editor-performer Monica S. Kuebler of Toronto, with one major difference: Kuebler far from stutters her divine spoken word. Performing recently at a rural event, Kuebler delighted and, in some cases, scared her audience. |
| I was just coming from another venue, in which literary lions Nino Ricci and Anne Govier were reading. Their introductions were longer than the novel passages from which they read. Govier did a bad refrain of some exotic bird in a swamp, setting my teeth on edge, and Ricciıs monotone voice put me to sleep. Stumbling my way up to the other happening, I awakened, through Kuebler, to the excitement of which the written and oral language is more than capable, but one seldom sees in the works and voices of well-established writers. |
| Kueblerıs poetry is less academic, her language the language of the street and-or of everyday speech. She manipulates the stage with ease. Admirable is her total actorıs absorption into her role. In one poem she performed, she seemed to snake-charm through the audience, leaving |  |
| the safe boundary of the stage, and slinking through tables full of people, creating the whole dining room as her stage. No matter what poem Kuebler recites, she punctuates every phrase with gesture, facial expression, dance-like movement. One may see her between poems glancing at the table where her books of poetry from her self-made underground press Burning Effigy are scattered like candy. Eagerly, she grabs a book, turns to a page, and looks her audience in the eye. She is not only confident, but she is the genuine article in terms of giving her all to her listeners. The intros are, thankfully, brief and, then, away she goes, disappearing into the poem, which she has, in fact, committed to memory. Itıs more than committal to memory. It seems to emanate from her pores; she becomes the living poem, and presents it as though the subject matter and action were unfolding before oneıs very eyes. |
| Kuebler is unmistakably a poet, but not in the purist tradition.
Another writer might think of her as a slam or rant performer only. I like to think of her as an aural artist, but not solely. Her works on stage are presented as monologues, and derive, therefore, from a theatrical tradition. |
| Her work on the page is a free association of sprawling but connected images and ideas, while refrains have the ring of song. If one is looking for formal poetic meter and structure or a pristine use of grammar, you wonıt find it systematically, if at all, in Kueblerıs work. Nor is her art prosaic or strictly storytelling disguised in poetic form. |
| The rhythms and propelling force are developed from spoken language. She hears music and regularity in common speech, and talks about everyday things -- not a new concept by any means, but one that suits Kuebler as a vehicle in which to encase her feelings: sometimes moving, or funny, or whimsical and, occasionally, profound. |
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In a poem, from her newest collection shared with poet Cynthia Gould, some words spoken (Burning Effigy Press), she writes a tribute to her grandmother called ³beautiful (for oma)² that is spoken word and poetry in one. |
| She danced herself through a war, two wars./ She danced herself through childbirth and slaving over open stoves./ She danced herself across an ocean, with everything she owned./ Her recital was an entire lifetime of love and death and work and pride and struggle./ She knew the rhythm of bombs falling/ and shells hitting concrete and she found the/ steps to match the beat of survival. |
| But the most beautiful ballets are born out of struggle, hardship is the womb/ that blooms beauty, the muse that strikes the chords that echo through you, deliciously. |
| Her poetry would appeal especially to a younger generation and
to the young at heart, or to anyone who views life as a continual
life-long trial-and-error experience. A die-hard traditionalist or mainstreamer may only be mystified, perhaps even offended. |
| All in all, some words spoken gives us a refreshed, post-beat, kill-beat, alternate form; a free-floating, uncharted, unstudied branch of poetry as a whole, spoken word that many artists are developing as never before. |
| Unfortunately, too many academics still fail to acknowledge spoken word. They will, undoubtedly, be left behind. Kuebler is ambitious, as are the like-minded artists whom she publishes as a collective (with Kuebler at the helm), and many other deserving poets who are having difficulty getting published in the mainstream. Kuebler and other poets, undaunted, are forging ahead on their own without the blessings of established presses.Judging from the attendance at cafe venues that are hauling in the crowds, such as the Art Bar series, Renaissance Cafe series, and several other stages in Toronto, and in many other outlying areas, not to mention the popularity of small and independent book fairs, I would say the public is ready and eager for more. |
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For more information about Burning Effigy press, check out Kueblerıs website at www.burningeffigy.com . To inquire about her
reading series called Strange Tongues, visit her website at www.burningeffigy.com/strangetongues
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All photos copyright Zaiden Productions