Does a poem mean?
We studied Ciardi’s How Does a Poem Mean? in college
I don’t think Ciardi gets it
“Have you ever felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”
Whitman asks in futility of our post-modern age
I’m tired of Wallace Stevens
THE MAN WITH THE BLUE GUITAR never meant a word to me
I tried and gave up trying and now I don’t care
Precious language, specious language, and that’s about it
I want meaning in a poem more than precious language
And Plato cleaved art from truth and made much of propositions
Though his dialogues read like stories and some have myths
My English professor almost omitted Robert Frost
From his Modern American Poetry course due to Frost having “subjects”
Let alone rhyme and rhythm beats and feet, like Blake’s Tyger
It wasn’t all that long ago that Percy Bysshe Shelley
In EPIPSYCHIDION or MONT BLANC: LINES
Imaged more than meant, or imaged as meaning
And it is late, and I am old, and the time and my age are making me cranky
Maybe it’s too much to say I don’t care about Stevens
I get Jackson Pollock, but own an expensive Andrew Wyeth print
I read Stevens, but I like Robert Frost
Time was, language communicated
Truth was told, wisdom was passed down to generations
Story was religion, and verse, prophesy
And art was more than style and originality,
Poetry more than precious word choice
But it’s late, and I’m getting tired and old
I still care how a poem means
I may be going the way of rhyme and rhythm, beats and feet
But it’s nice and sweet not to have to like Wallace Stevens anymore
MUSINGS ON STYLE AND TRUTH
30 Apr 2021 Leave a comment
in Blog Tags: Andrew Wyeth, Blake, EPIPSYCHIDION, Jackson Pollock, language, poem, poetry, Robert Frost, Shelley, style, truth, Wallace Stevens, wisdom
Writing Poetry after Youth
02 Jan 2021 2 Comments
in Blog Tags: alteration, art, criticism, essay, inspiration, maturity, poetry, style, T. S. Eliot, youth
Any poet, if he is to survive as a writer beyond his twenty-fifth year, must alter; he must seek new literary influences; he will have different emotions to express. This is disconcerting to that public which likes a poet to spin his whole work out of the feelings of his youth;–T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound: His Metric and Poetry
T. S. Eliot wrote this insightful comment when he was 29. He had written The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, but had not yet written The Waste Land. It is a remarkable comment, since Eliot, himself, hadn’t “altered.” His own style was still developing and his arguably best work was yet to come. From my own personal experience, I think that there is something in this observation of Eliot’s.
Some time in my early 30’s my passion for poetry had dried up. Those strong feelings of youth were being replaced by different motivations. As Eliot writes, after 25, the poet “will have different emotions to express.” It is fair to say that in early adulthood/late youth, emotions ruled my life. But as I aged, deliberation and understanding the large question of how the world works and the still larger question of how the map of living unfolds became increasingly important. So the verbal filigree of young passion yielded to more contemplative works.
However, just beginning to tackle different life issues, expression proved a fresh start on language. So my output was inferior during this period. I remember a friend who liked my earlier poetry once exclaim to me, “You’ve lost it!” And I had. I had mostly lost youth.
But as time progressed, I became accustomed to the challenges that life throws at adults and my writing began to mature, too. I was aware of the loss of my muse in my early 30’s. I knew that I wasn’t writing very well. I knew that my friend was right, for then. In fact, I had almost quit writing altogether; I did precipitously stop writing for long spells. But I couldn’t stop writing. A new style developed for the new person I was since youth. Of the poems I’ve published, ¾ are “post-30’s” poems;–that is, poetry I wrote after the age of 30. That which was lost was found!
Eliot’s style underwent quite an alteration as he aged, as well. As a literature major once told me, “The jury’s still out on Four Quartets” (1936-1942—when Eliot was aged 48-52). But the jury returned a verdict on The Cocktail Party (premiered 1949); utter failure. The difference in Eliot’s later work, compared with that of his earlier work, though, is not only a matter of Eliot’s age. He had also undergone a religious conversion and meant to express it in his work. This is a major “alteration!” And even if Eliot’s artistry matched his new spirituality, the critical reception would have been skewed by the counter-religious zeitgeist of the modern age.
Writing poetry is a dance between grasping language, grasping life, and grasping art. All this is likely to undergo revision and rewrites with the stages of living one will experience here, and perhaps, hereafter.
MANIFESTO
05 May 2020 Leave a comment
in Blog Tags: creativity, fancy, manifest, poem, poetry, style, tradition, verse, wings
Blessings rarely fall upon creativity,
The blessed gift that gives blessings to the world
Would that all God’s people were prophets
Business demands compliance to management
Academia demands conformity to pedagogy
The workers and scholars who meet success
Want creativity, don’t want creativity, wanton creativity
Constrained in a cage, the wings of creativity chafe
But soaring flights of fancy ill bear containment
Even at peril, wings flex their wits
Affront establishment, norms, aesthetic strictures
Flout trends, tradition, transmission of style
Interested only in release of the muse, manifestation
Fractious under pressure to demur to stricture, structure
Nature knows no other course
And must be itself, be it bless or curse
Knowing blesses only at happy realizations of muse
The which only creative natures nurture
Must manifest, make, make known, appear, make apparent
LIVING MY OWN LIFE
01 Apr 2019 Leave a comment
in Blog Tags: alone, church, drunkenness, existentialism, free verse, poetry, sacred community, sobriety, style, vogue
Existential isolation was
En vogue
When I was in school
(Probably still is)
To which I added drunken dissipation
Upon graduation I found sobriety
And was terribly alone
Outside the “we” program
Despising my loneliness
In an otherwise paradisaical climate
I no longer feel alone
Which begins with Carol and us
There is the small church
Sacred community
In a world that has no place for religion
Out of vogue
Trends
But I have Carol
I have the church
I have sacred community
Which means more than any trend
I live my own life
I pay the consequences, reap the rewards
And think very little about some social construct of vogue