Playfulness and Poetry.

Besides doing extensive revisions on my book about Coleridge and Lamb in the past couple of weeks I have also been trying to read as much as possible. I recently reread McGann's Romantic Ideology and was frustrated once again with his strange, sometimes paradoxical and overly theoretical response to Romanticism. I was also reading a group of essays entitled Literary Theories in Praxis (ed. by Shirley Staton). The essays in this book are very interesting, but perhaps even more interesting are the short introductory remarks to each essay. But what has struck me through all this reading is not the truth of any particular literary theory but the inadequacy of all the theoretical attempts in their effort to grasp or really come to terms with literature. For example, Lipking's effort to "make sense" out of a poem like Yeat's Sailing to Byzantine does nothing for me but render the whole idea of poetical analysis 'non-sense.' Besides years of academic use of this poem rendering it rather dead (a fact that Lipking admits), Lipking's effort to make sense of this poem reminds me of the mass hysteria that drives such analysis into constructing habitual boundaries of acceptable meaning which students are then, through the process of anticipatory socialization, compelling into concluding 'for themselves.' As unpopular with 'intellectuals' as it might be, it seems to me that poetry cannot be analysed but only played with. This is not to say that poetry is a game but rather that it is a ground of aesthetic play that affords us space to make our own meaning. In our constant drive to reconcile the mind with the heart, and the individual with the universal, literature and art in general allows us a place in which we can play through this struggle, pulling in one direction and then in the other in this most human of endeavors. I speak up, therefore, for the play of poetry and the painful irrelevance of much analysis that so regularly looks toward fixed and correct meanings.

Stay tuned for some more observation on this issue as I try to post some blogs about my recent readings of Colerige.

Lorca and Fascism.

Every once in a while I pick up my book of poetry by Federico Garcia-Lorca and enjoy a few verses by a great poet. Lorca has gradually gained fame outside of Spain and is now the most translated Spanish author with the exception of Cervantes. Lorca’s greatness lies in his strange combination of innocence and worldliness which emerges in almost every line of his poetry. He is magical as an author just as he was magical as a man and if I could sit down and have dinner with any poet he might be my first choice because whenever I need a shot of magic Lorca’s poetry goes directly to my heart.

But reading Lorca’s poetry is always an experience in mixed emotions. Every time I think of Lorca I am haunted by the fact that in the first days of the Spanish Civil War a group of Fascists, who were threatened not only by his politics but by his sexuality, came and took him in the middle of the night and he was never seen again. Lorca’s untimely death was not only a tragedy for the Lorca family but it was a tragedy for the Spanish nation and a terrible loss to all of us. And when I think of poor Lorca, who despite his incredible vulnerability was, in his own way, the very symbol of bravery, I am overcome with a wave of pessimism. Lorca’s death makes me realize how vulnerable we all are and how persistently the right-wing struggles to destroy the poetic essence of life. And then I look at my daughter Cairo, who is still so young and vulnerable, I weep at how much they have taken from her, and how much they continue to take from her.

Men in suits, capitalists who cling to a warped ideology and a twisted version of Christianity, continue to make every effort they can to kill poetry. Everyday Lorca is murdered again as men like Stephen Harper attack the vulnerable, and Dick Cheney stands up in defense of torture. And thus the human soul withers and dies in the face of the continual attacks both subtle and blatant from those who seek and wield power.

I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come,

For I don’t want to see the blood

Of Ignacio in the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide open.

Horse of still clouds,

And the grey bull ring of dreams

With willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Let my memory kindle!

Warm the jasmines

Of such minute whiteness.

 

Garcia-Lorca 

Poetic Relief

By way of relief from my last posting and from the general state of things which has been less than ideal, I return to the world of poetry. And let's face it, we could all use a little (or a lot) more poetry in our lives. 

My dad was born in tenement buildings in Errol Street in central London. The buildings were sponsored by George Peabody, a philanthropist who had buildings constructed all over London for the working poor. The other day I was using Google street view and I could look at the actual building where my dad was born. And as I was virtually driving around my dad's neighbourhood in London, I went by Bunhill Fields grave yard which you can just see a small portion of on Google. Then it occurred to me that this is the site where William Blake is buried. It is not known for certain the location of his grave but there is a marker that was put in later to honor this great poet. And a perfect place to see it is one of my favorite web sites called Poet's Graves. http://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/index.html This is a great site that I recommend

because you can find all sorts of interesting facts and photos. It seems morbid at first 

thought but it really is kind of comforting to see that there are others out there who

also honor the great voices of poetic language. Its nice to know one is not entirely alone

in a rather harsh world. Take a quick look at the grave of your favorite poet and

remember the great power of language and love.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert -

That from heaven or near it

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art

-Shelley

A Thomas Hood Poem

Little Cairo was Cuddling up to me last night as I put her to sleep and this morning I read this poem by Thomas Hood entitled Lines On Seeing my Wife and two Children Sleeping in the Same Chamber. 

And has the earth lost its so spacious round, 

The sky its blue circumference above, 

That in this little chamber, there is found

Both earth and Heaven - my universe of love ! 

All that my God can give me or remove,

Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death.

Sweet that in this small compass I behove

To live their living and to breath their breath!

Almost I wish that with one common sigh 

We might resign all mundane care and strife,

And seek together that transcendent sky,

Where father, mother, children, Husband, Wife, 

Together pant in everlasting life. 

Peace to all. 

Poetry, Art, and Experts

We live in a technocratic age of specialization where the voice of experts carries a kind of sacred currency, so we are hesitant to take seriously the ideas of anyone who we do not perceive to be a specialist of some kind. And while this elitism has been particularly marked in the areas of science and economics, technocracy has also gradually colonized the humanities so that fewer and fewer non-academics have been prepared to venture into regions of intellectual endeavor such as literary theory. This exclusivity has been magnified by the increasing influence of linguistics in all areas of the humanities. In recent years many studies in the humanities have imported concepts and terminology from linguistics that are pseudo-scientific and nearly impossible for the uninitiated to understand. One can quite easily find essays on, say, William Blake that are so turgid and complex that even a graduate degree in the subject is no guarantee of understanding let alone appreciation. In the end I believe that one’s experience of a poet such as Blake will not be enhanced, and may even be hindered, by such complex ideas as ‘performative language’ or ‘speech-act theory.’ But within a culture where such specialists’ ideas are fast becoming the prevailing wisdom, how is a non-specialist to justify swimming in the depths of poetic waters?

Michael Schmidt is a non-academic who discussed this problem in the opening pages of his book, Lives of the Poets. In an imagined conversation, Schmidt hears the words of his practically minded father telling him that the experts will 'have his guts for garters," and asking him what hope he has of "escaping unscathed." The answer to such a question is, of course, that Schmidt had no hope of escaping anything. In fact, any non-expert who steps into this kind of arena expects the slings and arrows of professional criticism to rain down upon him.

But why should a growing technocracy and the threat of professional ridicule stop anyone who is determined to speak his or her mind on a matter of importance? And if someone does decide to undertake such a journey, I am not certain that they should feel compelled to justify themselves to the barking dogs of specialization or any of the members of the public who happen to support them. After all, the most important thing to remember is that art and poetry belong equally to all of us. And, far from having a monopoly on knowledge, I believe that academics develop such specialized viewpoints concerning all of the arts that they often lack the passionate engagement necessary for true aesthetic insight. For example, while every professor of Art History may teach her students of Van Gogh and his place in post-impressionism, few seem concerned with his plea to human compassion. And most professors, stable members of the bourgeoisie that they are, would be unable to see a man such as Van Gogh, if they actually met him, as anything more than a drunkard and a madman.
But if, after having considered all of this, there are still readers who question the wisdom of such an undertaking, I point them to the great essayist Michel de Montaigne. While Montaigne’s only professional accreditation was a law degree, he single-handedly invented a literary genre and the dozens of essays that he wrote are full of insights that span the spectrum of human endeavor. Montaigne, one of history’s great skeptics, made no pretence of specialized knowledge and readily offered himself up to ridicule in the hope that while studying himself and his own opinions, he was really studying humankind.

“I have no doubt,” Montaigne once wrote, “that I often happen to speak of things that are better treated by masters of the craft... and whoever shall catch me in ignorance will do nothing against me.” I deeply sympathize with such a sentiment because I believe that passion for a subject such as poetry is, in the final analysis, more important than learning and offers the opportunity for knowledge that is more universal. And keeping in mind that universalism, in any form, has gone distinctly out of fashion amongst philosophers; I do not seek to speak of universal truth but only for the opportunity for universal appreciation.

Shelley and the power of poetry

In the past generation a major revaluation of Percy Shelley has been taking place. There have traditionally been two public images of Shelley: one was of a selfish rouge, an atheist with little or no regard for others; and the other image was of an ethereal, fairy like, asexual, sprite. Slowly there has been emerging a more life-like picture of a genuine flesh and blood creature with all the emotions and feelings of a man of his age. One important part of the revaluation of Shelley has been that of his ideas of poetry. Newer readings of Shelley great essay A Defence of Poetry have concentrated on the ambiguous and ambivalent attitude toward poetry that Shelley displays there.

John Hodgson, in his book, Coleridge, Shelley and Transcendental Inquiry, contends that far from having a positive, transcendental view of poetry, Shelley harboured deep-seated negative view of poetry’s potential. Without going into the details of Hodgson’s long and turgid arguments, I say that what is wrong with Hodgson’s view, and most academic notions about poetry and art, is that he is unable to view Shelley’s work with the eyes of a poet. Hodgson makes far too many demands concerning logical consistency and fails to understand that Shelley possesses ambivalent views of poetry because, as a great artist, he could not do otherwise. Shelley’s essay, for all of its remarkable insight, must express an underlying ambivalence because the project of art is one that constantly moves from doubt to transcendence. In his brighter moments Shelley, like most artists, is certain of the transcendence of poetry and insists that a poet is someone who “must put himself in the place of another and of many other; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination; and poetry administers to the effect by acting upon the cause. Poetry enlarges the circumference of the imagination by replenishing it with thoughts of every new delight, which have the power of attracting and assimilation to their own nature all other thoughts and which form new intervals and interstices whose void forever craves fresh food. Poetry strengthens that faculty which is the organ of the moral nature of man in the same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.”

But this is the optimistic side of the great artist speaking: the youthful sprite who is able to see the universe in a grain of sand. But the pendulum of an artist like Shelley must swing in both extremes if he is to be the creative force that he is. Thus in the same essay Shelley can express this much darker and pessimistic view of the poet’s life: “a poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.”

The ground on which great artists must stand is never secure, it shakes and moves; at one moment it crumbles into an abyss of blackness and then in the next moment it rises up to God. Look for this ambivalence in the great artists you admire and it will enrich their work while it enriches you.

Our Adversity

We have left the world behind haven’t we? I want to be in Poliphili’s dream for a while. That would be a triumph of everything wouldn’t it? To begin in a forest before there were men with guns. Everything would be enunciated perfectly if we could follow Poliphili into this strange place of rest. I would tell the despicable dull-suited men that “although we are intent on such praiseworthy idleness, you will not disturb our calm and pleasant relaxation.” How wonderful it would be to put the grievous pains behind us and wallow in everything that has so far not been taken into account.

“Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep, wide sea of Misery
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could linger on –
Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his weary way
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel’s track.” (Shelley – Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills)

Where are our green isles? They are taking them from us; they are building arms factories in their place aren’t they? Is their nothing we can do? I suppose that too many of us have lost faith in poetry and if we cannot speak the words of liberation, speak them with subtlety and invigorating grandeur, then we cannot bring wonder and justice into the world

“A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.” (Shakespeare, A Comedy of Errors)

A Comedy of Errors – how profoundly fitting is that!?

Poetry vs Conservatism

I don’t know about you but I have little sympathy for Robert Southey. Born in 1774, Southey was the son of a linen draper and though he received a rather patchy education, he displayed an early talent for Latin and writing verse. Although he began an education at Oxford with an eye toward the clergy, Southey was drawn to writing, eventually earning an impressive reputation and living as an author of poetry and a number of histories, including a multi-volume history of Brazil. In 1813 Southey won the appointment of Poet laureate, guaranteeing him a place in the history of English poetry. Now even though the ‘office’ of Poet Laureate has been occupied by such illustrious names as Dryden, Wordsworth, and Tennyson, none of the truly great poets of passion and vision have ever held the title. In fact a number of interesting poets have refused the title including William Morris and Philip Larkin. But it is not his status as Poet Laureate that turns me off of Robert Southey, rather it is his abandonment of idealism, the true focus of great poetry, that makes it difficult for me to sympathise with him. As a young man Southey admired the motivations behind the French Revolution and was committed to the struggle for political reform and social equality. For a long time Southey was committed to elaborate plans with his friend Coleridge to found a utopian community on the banks of the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. But Southey quickly abandoned his political radicalism and became a fervent and active Tory, supporting the government of Lord Liverpool. Southey, like most Tories, was fond of blaming reformers and the working-class for their own oppression and was strongly opposed to Catholic emancipation. Now as much as I despise Tories in general, I hold a special place of loathing for a person who begins at point of poetry and idealism only to abandon the cause of humanity. The greatest consolation we can draw from Southey’s abhorrent abandonment of everything good and humane (as all Toryism is) is that he is now a largely forgotten poet, little known or read. A couple of years ago I had a friend who was taking a university course in English Romanticism and Southey wasn’t even included! Perhaps the only thing that Southey wrote that is still widely known is the Three Bears.

Yet despite Southey’s Toryism and abandonment of hope, I recently found something interesting and ironic. I was reading through a six volume edition of the Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey compiled by his son, Charles, when I found something he had written in a letter to friend named John May that sparked my interest. Southey wrote:
“It is not manners and fashions alone that change and are perpetually changing with us. The very constitution of society is unstable: it will, and in all probability will, undergo as great alterations, in the course of the next two or three centuries, as it has undergone in the last. The transitions are likely to be more violent, and far more rabid. At no very distant time, these letters, if they escape the earthquake and the volcano, may derive no small part of their interest and value from the faithful sketches which they contain of a stage of society which has already passed away, and a state of thing which then will have ceased to exist.”

This letter, written when Southey had already abandoned his youthful ideals, is remarkable. It is amazing that a man committed to the deplorable ideology of Toryism – an ideology distinguished by its blind commitment to tradition and resistance to social and political change – could make this basic insight concerning the inevitability of change. A conservative is someone who accepts a radical idea a century after it was conceived, after the radicals have moved on to something better. Unfortunately conservatives also fail to recognize this basic reality, imagining instead that, because of fundamental human inadequacies, we have now reached the greatest height of social or moral development. It is odd therefore to read these words written from the hand of rather despicable Tory, words that recognize that his own beliefs and commitments will soon be surpassed.

Poetry and War

Poets must be experts at remembering, but also at forgetting. But while remembering seems to be an infinitely complex web of construction and forgetting appears to be a simple act, things are not what they seem. Forgetting is much more complicated than remembering, just as thinking is always easier than non-thinking. Remembering has its own momentum and moves like a stone rolling down a hill. Forgetting requires the immeasurably difficult act of stopping the stone of remembering with mental power. The stone is most obviously visible in the ferocious momentum of war. The desire to go to war is a habit of history whose source is our inability to forget. Yet we are surprised each time a generation seems almost glad to go war. But the warriors are just remembering, and unavoidably being run over by the stone.