Many thanks for hosting this…
In solidarity with National Poetry Month, Delete
Press is pleased to announce the publication of the second and only extant
Works and Days of the fénéon collective
(A Mystery, in Faits Divers, about the Poetic
Field) [Book One]
Edited and Introduced by Anonyme
with an Afterword by Tao Lin
This illuminated document is the second in our
e-series and is available for free at:
Print it out!
Distribute at plant gates!
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“The abolition and the realization of poetry are
inseparable aspects of a single transcendence of poetry.”
—from the founding manifesto of the fénéon
collective, October, 2008
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Back from self-made factional death, the fénéon
Herewith most of the original faits divers from
its suddenly suppressed blog of 2008-09, plus a selection of numerous new or
semi-new ones, accompanied by never-before-seen historical Prefaces and Afterword,
the fénéon collective (i.e., its two principal sects, [Unified
Body] and [Authentic Tendency], their productions joined
here) projects a Wunderkammer of comical and tragical
sceneries through the Magic Lantern of the Poetic Field.
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What others have been saying:
Somebody sent me the link—they’re very
funny! (Such of them as I get, not
having hung around the poetry saloon in a few decades.) Bravo!
—Luc Sante, translator of Novels in Three Lines,
by Félix Fénéon (NYRB Classics)
On the information super-hiway the rabbit is not
sufficiently agile. With mercury and a
matchbox the MLA, in silence, inter the erasure. No tenure for the Congo; phosphorous sight for the eyeless. Let le collectif continue to disturb.
Hilariously glum, as is his wont of late, M.
Silliman links not to this masterful subversion of every type of
careerism… All too glum, the fog—the
poetics of windswept fields as of tuna milk—is lifted as the Fénéon Collective
brings the clear weather. What elephant
in the room, of marble men & maidens overwrought? You need a weathercock to know which way the blind wow. They wow for you.
Well, honestly, there’s something
old-fashionably fabulous about the Faits Divers, don’t you think? If this wasn’t a lost Impercipient Lecture
Series pamphlet, it should be.
Strike through the leaves of the cypress tree:
the eyes of Fénéon glimmer on thee.
They call from throats both living and dead, and the dew comes chrisming
over thy head.
—Michael Hansen, former Editor, Chicago Review
fénéon collective is a hydra-headed Vasari for
the 21st c. whose hyper-democratic longlist of short accountings for the demise
of just about everybody is a feat of sadistic generosity.
—Jeff Nagy, co-Editor, The Claudius App
Under the street the beach
also too often under the street another street
and bullet holes were discovered by Félix Fénéon from the commune.
Fénéon collective, congrats.
I was born in Newark. They say Stalinists and Trotskyites
had to give permission before I was begot.
… (Y)ou’ll be hearing from my lawyer.
—a leading Flarf poet
Thanks, Fénéon Collective!
The fénéon collective…has made their critique of
the silence of poets (and our damnable professionalism) in these grave times
explicit. I hope never to mistake the
business of poetry (the PoBiz, as some are wont to call it) with the vocation
…This is to express my appreciation for all your
collective efforts. With warm greetings
to M. Fénéon, wherever he is.
What devilry is this… Or should I say diablerie?
—Don Share, Editor, Poetry
I myself was delighted to be killed off by Les
Feneons in tandem with the excellent Mme. Perillo.
I think it’s more in the spirit of Jim Carroll’s
“People Who Died” only less tragic and more funny, less punk and more goth. Or
something. Or something else.
…[T]here’s no reason to believe that this author
[sic] is more politically engaged than any of his [sic] subjects, and indeed
plenty of reason to believe otherwise (I myself have been in jail with at least
two of the poets subjected to such comic scrutiny).
As an ex-blogger, I am glad you are not content
to let unconscious dogs lie, even though it is still a matter of opinion
whether or not they can be awakened, even by the most assiduous application of
your fleet and tickle barbs, which I hope will pierce my own carmine pretensions
in the very near future. I am utterly
yours in poetry, laughter, and (affectionate) fellow-feeling,
I think this project is stupid.
—Noah Eli Gordon
KeepemKoming—Hutire & Samor may well be the
most basic missing ingredients of la poésie amerloque d’aujourdhui.
Here in Chile, we are watching… (P. called Z.
about it, yesterday. There is a rumor
that E. is a part of this. Is it true?)
Should be more of this kind of thing.
Chers amis–just don’t do the grand piano of
self-blurbing, s’il vous plait! avec mes meilleurs voeux,
I don’t mind satire or critique, but this is over the line… It encourages
violent fantasies, and that is regrettable.
The fénéon collective’s squibs are…wickedly
funny & often very pointed indeed.
The very anger they aroused on their first publication is an index of
how close to the bone some of their satire strikes. There is something here for everyone to be offended by, and
likewise there is something to solace every resentment.
I’m not going to waste my money on [the fénéon
collective book], and I hope nobody else does either.
I think the fénéon collective is a welcome and
pretty damn funny addition to contemporary poetry polemics. Like any good revolutionary movement, the
fénéon collective will need to develop a decentralized, cellular structure, so
I hereby announce that I’m forming a South Jersey cell. Our first meeting will be next Tuesday and
will last five minutes, at which point the three of us in attendance will
accuse each other of bad faith, careerism, and destroying poetry. Each of us will then return to our
apartments, drink four Zimas, and start our own blogs, which will immediately
ban anyone who questions our aesthetic and political judgments.
When T. S. Eliot wrote “Poetry’s got the
cruelest mouth” he probably didn’t mean to refer to all those mignons et
mignonnes who, today, thin-lipped and choosy—not to say “cow’d”—avoid any
authentic loud discharge of satire or controversy, anything that might prove
injurious to their imagined summons some rosy-hued morn by the sternly
Ah, the sternly Canonist! Ah, careerism, so ably
So it’s mighty refreshing here at the end of the
gris-de-France naught ’aughts to learn of a tiny pocket of resistance: Le
Collectif Fénéon. That the Old Guard
poobahs and their ponce Young Turk apologists both so determinedly attempt to
ignore its candor and critique, only makes plain how perfectly that loose and
potent gang’s become, as Ashbery said of O’Hara, “a source of annoyance for
partisans of every stripe.”
Vive Fénéon! Vive Le Collectif!