John Bloomberg-Rissman « POETICKS

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Entry 862 — What’s A Literary Critic?

Saturday, September 15th, 2012

There’s a discussion at leafepress.com the title of which is, “What is Literary Criticism? What is a Literary Critic?” It’s mainly between Conrad DiDiodato and John Bloomberg-Rissman, but Ed Baker takes a few potshots at the others, basically reiterating the standard belief of the romantic poet that criticism is irrelevant to poets.

The discussion annoyed me because it made no references to my criticism. Of course, I didn’t really expect it to, although Conrad knows a little of my work, but I have trouble listening to people taking tenth-rate critics seriously when my work is available. Yes, I am that arrogantly convinced of the value of my criticism. Not that I’m all that sure it’s any good, but that I am positive that it’s many orders of magnitude better than Derrida’s, say, or DeMan’s, or that moron Foucault, which these guys seem to admire (although they do seem to be familiar with a wide range of critics, some of whom I don’t take as tenth-rate, like Cleanth Brooks.

The discussion annoyed me more because, like so many such discussions, it starts nowhere, really, and splathers inconclusively severalwhere. Its central defect is absence of defined axiom-setting terms—due to the standard belief of its participants that “artworks . . . can NEVER be fully unpacked.” The truth is that any artwork can be unpacked sufficiently to satisfy any sane person. Just as the distance from my house to yours can be measured sufficiently to satisfy any sane person although it can never be measure perfectly.

This absence of defined terms allows them to say sometimes interesting things, and not worry about contradiction. And it satisfies the political need of the naïve to feel certain all beliefs are equally true/false, just as all persons are equally good/bad. The only problem with it is that it’s nonsense. This is a problem, because false beliefs are much more likely to lead to grief than true beliefs—as every knows intuitively but intellectuals keep out of their verbal awarenesses. For example, an intellectual won’t make a fifty-foot swan dive into a pool whose water he knows is frozen because his reptile brain will give him nausea at the thought of doing so. But the nausea will never work its way up into his verbal awareness and bother him with the possibility that a belief that a fifty-foot dive into a pool of solid ice is harmful is true whereas a belief that it is not harmful is false.

I know. Simplistic. But in the final analysis, true.

I began this expecting simply to answer the questions in the title of the leafepress.com discussion. No, not answer them, just scatter a few thoughts concerning them. I’ve elsewhere answered the questions pretty well, I believe, although I’m not sure when or where. Right now, however, I have one new thought (for me) about the subject: that there is an important difference between a literary critic and a literary appreciator. A literary critic tells you—make that, “tries to tell you”—everything important to know about a particular literary work based on its expressive elements alone. Which will include what is denoted, what connoted and what is explicitly alluded to. It will, I believe, also include what is implicitly alluded strongly enough for most knowledgeable engagents of the work under analysis to connect to. “Fourscore and ten years ago,” for instance, with “Lincoln’s “fourscore and ten years ago” being an explicit reference.

Hmm, I see that I’ve defined a literary critic, except that I left “literary work” undefined. So be it, for now, although it’s easy to define; it’d take too many words for me to bother doing that here (and I’ve done it elsewhere). Oh, one other minor omission: I didn’t say what it is important to know about a literary work. I’ve defined that, too. It wouldn’t take all that many words, but too many for me to bother with here.

Let me turn to what a literary appreciator is. I decided I needed the term because it seems to me my definition of the literary critic is almost identical to any new critic’s. But new critics opposed going beyond the artifact on the page or pages in analyzing it. I believe them correct to dos, but only strictly speaking. I want someone telling me about a poem, say, to tell me things about its maker, including things having little or nothing to do with the poem. Like, Wow, a guy like Ezra Pound could believe in a totally loony economics theory yet write “In a Station of the Metro!” A literary appreciator is a literary critic who also is willing to discuss all kinds of things about a poem beyond what it is as literature. He is not someone who slights literary analysis to do this. He must also avoid finding implicit allusions that aren’t there for any normal person and building wacky psychiatric interpretations out of them the way Freud did and has followers have. As basically all the French critics and their allies have in diverse ways.

Not that there isn’t a place for, say, someone who focuses on what forces in society may have influenced the final form of a poem. Such a person is neither a literary critic nor a literary appreciator; he is a sociological critic of literature.

Before I end I want to mention that I would divide literary critics into two kinds: the practical literary critic and the theoretical literary critic (unless I think of a better name). The first deals with works of literature, each mostly by itself, although he may (and usually should) connect a work to other works of its author, and to like works by others; the second does this also, but presents some kind of theory for the nature and value of a literary work—not just that rhyme is pleasurable, for instance, but why it is. Along the way he will provide a taxonomy of the kinds of literary works he deals with, and a continuing list of the techniques used in them with detailed descriptions of them, and why they are effective.

Above the two kinds of literary critics is the literary philosopher. Such a person is a serious seeker of significant final truths about literature. He will probably also be a philosopher of aesthetics, one seriously seeking significant final truths about all the arts, not just literature. My taxonomy continues upward, finally arriving at the neurophysiological theorist—who is one step below the Total Verospher, who seriously seeks significant final truths about everything!

Urp.

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Entry 390 — Two Poems from three Years Ago « POETICKS

Entry 390 — Two Poems from three Years Ago

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Just about three years ago I wrote a version of the following poem:

.             Poem has a question

.             Whose sleep is the sky?
.             For hours and
.             hours Poem
.             wondered.

I improved it just now by deleting its previous two last words, “about that.”

Note: I find that the day after I wrote the above, I “improved” it by adding ten or twelve lines to it.  I hereby disown that version.

The following is a re-done poem I sent a year or more earlier to something going on in Mexico.  I was trying to do something with the show’s theme of International friendship, or something.  Barely worth keeping, I’d say but may some will enjoy it.

Note: as should be obvious from the way I strained tofind things for this entry, I’m still blah.

5 Responses to “Entry 390 — Two Poems from three Years Ago”

  1. marton koppany says:

    Whose sleep is the sky.

  2. Bob Grumman says:

    Aah, you minimalists!

    But possibly yours is an equal but different version of the poem; I like Poem physically in his poems, though, and the emphasis on the time the question intrigues him. There’s even a juxtaphor (implicit metaphor) between the motion of the sky and the motion of Poem’s wonder–for me, at any rate.

  3. marton koppany says:

    It just came to my mind as a possible “answer” to Poem’s “question”. Perhaps, yes, because he was physically there. :-)

  4. Kevin Kelly says:

    I’m still working my way in reverse (top to bottom) on your blog, Bobby, so I may find more like these, but I think there’s something really interesting going on in “Mathemaku No. 21,” specifically in the figure after the minus sign. I like the possibilities with the reverse type creating new shapes inside those already created in the mashing up of letters.

  5. Bob Grumman says:

    Thanks for the look, Kevin.

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Enter 389 — “Mathemaku for Paul Giovanopoulos” « POETICKS

Enter 389 — “Mathemaku for Paul Giovanopoulos”

Another from my previous blog–because it seems interesting to me, but mainly because I’m again too out of it to work up a decent fresh entry:

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The Japanese is from a haiku by Basho.  English translation: “autumn nightfall.”  The quotient is a collage of three appropriations, one of them having to do with Dr. Who.   I’m a bit bothered that the appropriated image of the Giovanopoulos painting is so important a part of the poem, that it makes the poem possibly much more his work than mine.  I hope that the reductaesthetic (or conceptual/aesthetic) use I make of it outweighs that, though.  I am not bothered about stealing the image, for I believe all texts, songs and images should belong to everyone once released to the public–except when someone gains money and/or prestige from the use of another’s work that the work’s creator could have made.  For instance, if I made copies of the Giovanopoulos work and sold them.  If I can sell copies of my poem using his work, though, it is too unlikely that anyone would buy it who would, if not for my work, have bought a copy of it that Giovanopoulos is getting royalties from.  In other words, my use of the image should not reduce its economic value to him.  It could even be considered an advertisement that would increase the value of that work or of the artist’s work in general.

I c0nsider myself morally bound to give Giovanopoulos credit, as I have, in my title.

I might add that I wouldlove it if anyone were to appropriate anything of mine the way I appropriate a good many works of others.

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Entry 586 — “Sonnet from My Forties” « POETICKS

Entry 586 — “Sonnet from My Forties”

While hunting this morning for an essay of mine that had something in it I wanted to tell Richard Kostelanetz about, I came across a copy of Jake Berry’s zine, The Experioddicist, and found a version of the sonnet of mine I wrote about in my Of Manywhere-at-Once.  I spent months on it, never getting it right, then continued working on it on and off–until now, never getting it right.  I often thought for a while I had.  That’s the case now.  The version in The Experioddicist isn’t quite right, but I immediately saw how I thought I could change it so it was: here’s the once again final version:

     Sonnet from My Forties

     Much have I ranged the broad-skied latitudes
     That Stevens festivalled his inquiries
     On truth and the imagination to,
     And reams used up in vain attempts to reach

     The heights that he did. Often, too, I’ve been
     To where the small dirt’s awkward first grey steps
     Toward high-hued sensibility begin
     In Roethke’s verse, or measured the extent

     Of wing-swirled, myth-electric, royal light
     That Yeats achieved, or marveled down the worlds
     That Pound re-morninged windily to life,
     but failed as dismally to match their works.

     Yet still, nine-tenth insane though it now seems,
     I seek those ends; I hold to my huge dreams.

Okay, now that I’ve typed it out, I’m not so enthusiastic about it.  I changed line 3 from “On truth and metaphor in due course to” to “On truth and the imagination to,” a definite improvement.  The first stanza still doesn’t quite do it for me, but the rest of the poem seems fine–or would, I’m sure, if I hadn’t read and reread it some many hundreds of times.  Needless to say, it’s in the old-fashioned mode of Hopkins/Yeats/Thomas and probably over-rich–certainly to today’s taste.  It’s somewhat redeemed by its use of reversed rhymes (which are full rhymes, not alliterations).  It still sums up my life in poetry, though–alas.

* * *

Tuesday, 6 December 2011, 5 P.M.  A non-productive day, although I did try to get a few things done.  Mainly, I spent a couple of hours getting a copy of terms that are for use in my “Mathemaku for Scott Helmes”–twice, the second time because I needed them a different size.  (Actually, I plan to have a full-size version of the work, and a smaller one, so I can use both sets of terms.)  Earlier, another round of tennis, which went fairly well for me, for a change.  A second breakfast with teammates at the nearby McDonald’s followed.  Later I had a doctor’s appointment to get through and some grocery shopping to do.  I got some new medicine for my continuing urinary problems.  Right now I’m weary, as usual.  I feel, as I often do, that if I could just go to bed and go to sleep for twelve or thirteen hours, I’d be a new man.  But, although I’m more than sleepy enough than I should need to be to go to sleep, the chances are I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep, nor stay asleep for even as much as an hour if I did.

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Entry 659 — A Tribute to the Piano

Saturday, February 18th, 2012

I had high hopes for this one, which I composed yesterday.  I even thought I might work a sequence out of it, using the Klee ship “musical theme” as the first step of a visual symphony.  But I wasn’t satisfied with what I did with the ships.  As I worked with them, though, I came up with a lot of minor ideas I liked.  The main one was a suddenly conscious attempt to provide a metaphor for the coming of spring.  But I also liked breaking up what was originally as single framed image, and changing the sizes of each unit.  Grey-scaling the first two tiny ones seemed a nice touch, too.  And the escape of the final ship!  I didn’t like my dividend too well, either–after my initial enthusiasm for it (being a sucker for anything having to do with spring).  For some reason it doesn’t seem quite there, for me.  Maybe I’ll simplify it to, “a brook’s revived consideration of an April countryside.”  Yes, I think I was trying for too much. . . .

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Entry 657 — My Motto as a Poetry Critic

Thursday, February 16th, 2012

 Thinking about what Tony Robinson had at his blog spurred me to this motto of my own (obnoxious) practice as a poetry critic: Try for maximal understanding of the nature and value of what I’m critiquing, fully committed to the advance of poetry, as I understand it, and expressed with the best balance of clarity and fresh language I can manage.  I originally continued with “–with no significant suppression of emotion, regardless of the tender feelings of the hyper-offendable,” but upon reflection found that nice to say but too secondary for this motto. 

Better: Using the the best balance of clarity and fresh language I can manage, try to express maximal understanding of the nature and value of what I’m critiquing, fully committed to the advance of poetry, as I see it.  Ah, but I now see that “the value of what I’m critiquing” would include what the latter does to advance poetry.  Ergo:  Try, using the the best balance of clarity and fresh language I can manage, to express maximal understanding of the nature and value of what I’m critiquing. 

And here’s a copy (an imperfect one) of my motto as a poet:

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Entry 656 — A Clone of Shakespeare

Wednesday, February 15th, 2012

To continue my argument that the arts progress just like verosophy does (and take care of this entry with minimal effort), here’s a question: if a clone of Shakespeare had been created in 1980 and he was now a professional actor writing plays for the stage and screen, would they not be better than the ones he wrote four hundred years ago?  Would he not be able to improve on what he composed then?

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Entry 655 — A Response to a Blog Entry

Tuesday, February 14th, 2012

 

It’s at Anthony Robinson’s blog here.

Here’s what I said:

“Inaccessible writing” as writing not like I do, yes–and the related “incomprehensible poetry” without a hint that others may find it comprehensible–even the critic himself if he really tried. I try never to label any poem inaccessible although I will confess I can’t figure out a poem when that’s the case.

Good words on the so-called “principal aim”–but I would add that I would like to know why a poetry for the few should be denigrated. Should no one compose operas because, in Crews’s words, “most audiences will have trouble wrestling (them) into meaning?” Or cook really far-out gourmet dishes? Crews should have said he couldn’t say anything intelligent about Miller’s book, and ended his “review.”

Can’t say I think much of Crews’s example of Miller, when he’s good. Wind does have a sound, it seems to me, since–as I understand it–sound is what happens when something causes the air to vibrate which in turn causes mechanisms in the ear to vibrate. The wind, being air, would do this directly. Or, in the poem, indirectly, by causing trees to vibrate which causes the air to vibrate which causes the auditory mechanisms to vibrate. But maybe I’m wrong. In any case, all the poet seems to me to be saying is that the room is silent except for the sound of the wind in the trees.

Good question, whose ear does it appeal to. Seems to me a competent critic would say what the lines do auditorily that will tend to seem musical to most people, such as repeat words and syllables, which this passage does; but it doesn’t seem to me to do much else. The critic need not point out what I call a poem’s “melodations” as good, just point them out, since some readers may miss them–or hear them but not fully appreciate them.

I do agree with Crews that a poem needs some kind of point of stability–what I call a unifying principle–to deviate interestingly from. I’m big on titles, too, but certainly don’t think lack of one can spoil a poem. I’m not confident that Crews can recognize the most interesting unifying principles, some of them quite delayed.

Like all critics with readerships (as I believe Crews may have, for I think I’ve heard of him), he seems not to say much about poetic technique–subject matter and points of view seem to be for him all that matters in a poem.

I think you captured him quite well, young Anthony. Thanks for a report that got me involved enough for all this.

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Entry 653 — A Response to Hal Johnson’s Poem

Sunday, February 12th, 2012

 

Here’s Hal Johnson’s visio-infraverbal poem again:

 ”Lost in thought” is the simplest explication of this, but a better reading focuses on thought that is opposed, disrupted, damaged and finally sent in the wrong direction back to its futile beginning.  With “ugh” and “tough” being disconcealed in the process further to suggest the losing struggle for meaning expressed.   In short, a deft pwoermd.  A visuaol one as well as infraverbal because you can see the word’s letters metaphorically enacting the struggle.

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Entry 652 — An Infraverbal Poem by Hal Johnson

Saturday, February 11th, 2012

 

Here’s an infraverbal poem–actually a visio-infraverbal poem–Hal Johnson posted at New-Poetry:

    
 I’ll leave it for now as a puzzle.  Tomorrow I’ll reveal why it’s a first-rate poem.

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Entry 650 — Some Anti-Philogushy

Thursday, February 9th, 2012

Me Versus B. H. Fairchild and Others He quotes

Language can be a way of rescuing the hidden life, and that way is poetry.  You can’t rescue any hidden life, whatever that is, with prose?  Or some other art?  Or science?  Why wouldn’t using language to drown certain aspects of unhidden life be equally or more valuable? 

Glenn Gould: “The purpose of art is the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.” And wonder is everything to a poet.   It sure isn’t everything to me.  It and serenity are only two of many pleasures it is the function of art to provide.   Its manner of providing them is what sets it apart from verosophy and other endeavors which can, and try, to lead to wonder and serenity, and other pleasures.

Mandelstam: “We will remember in Lethe’s cold waters / That earth for us has been worth a thousand heavens.”  Nice thought–but unattainable heavens to dream toward are a high good, too.

Seven propositions:

1. By way of Wittgenstein and Heidegger: A poem is a verbal construction which, through an array of rhetorical and prosodic devices of embodiment, achieves an order of being, an ontological status, radically different from that of other forms of discourse (with the exception of certain kinds of descriptive and fictional prose).  I agree: a poem is a verbal construction different from almost all other verbal constructions.

2. Poetry occurs at a considerable distance from the ego.  As does almost anything else I can think of, when it isn’t nothing but ego.

3. There exists an infinity of nonverbal meaning.  Which the infinity of possible verbal meaning can express.

4. Science is progressive, but Art is not. It doesn’t get better; it just gets different. (The relevance and utility of all poetic forms.) See Mandestam.  All the arts, like all the sciences, have become vastly superior to what they were hundreds or thousands of years ago, but anti-progressives mistake the sentimentality that becomes more and more attached to the old because of their age for aesthetic rather than nostalgiacal value.  Compare the clumsy “novel” in the Bible about David with almost any competent commercial novel of today, for instance.  Consider how much more of existence the best art of today is about compared with earlier art.  For just one thing, today’s art has a vastly larger tradition to make allusions to than previous art had.  There have been artists in the past as great as our best, but what our best have produced is significantly better than what they did in part because of the what the artists of the past did.  (Note, this is a subject requiring a book.)

5. Rules are made to be broken; techniques are made to be used. (They were never rules anyway; they were techniques. The freedom of the artist, like that of the lathe machinist, is the freedom to choose those techniques, those tools, that he deems necessary for the task at hand. The refusal to use technique–and, obviously, to learn it–is the refusal to be an artist, or at least a free one.)  I more or less agree with all this, but I wonder how one can avoid using some technique.

6. Form is an extension of subject matter rather than of ideology or religious belief.  Every work of art requires a container; I call that container form; one calling it “an extension of subject matter,” if I understand him, needs to tell me what, then, is containing it and the subject matter it is an extension of.  I don’t know what ideology and religious belief have to do with it; how would they be not subject matter?

7. Meter is not the reins to keep the horse of the poem in check; it’s the heartbeat of the horse. Drop the reins. (Clearly this is an argument for meter rather than against it.) It is almost impossible to convince poets who never bothered to learn prosody that meter is something that emerges from within the language rather than something that is imposed externally upon the language. Even conversational English is very loosely iambic.  I think meter is both natural and imposed–necessarily imposed to add predictability to balance the difficult-to-accept unpredictability of horses going beyond prose that poetry at its best is. 

A poet is always limited by the fact that he has to write for other human beings.  Just to be argumentative, I would say that a poet’s having to write for others (and he needn’t) greatly increases his field of play.  (Note that our Wilshberian’s poet writes rather than composes.  It never occurs to any Wilshberian that a poem might be more than words.)

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Entry 649 — Some Philogushy from B.H. Fairchild

Wednesday, February 8th, 2012

“Philogushy” is my term for “love of gush.”  It’s practiced a good deal by poets.  Once again I could think of nothing to post here, so I stole the excerpt below from 25 pages of journal entries by poet B.H. Fairchild that are in the latest issue of New Letters, a magazine I’m reviewing for Small Press Review.  I knew nothing about Fairchild but apparently he’s very well-known, and a grant-winner.   

Language can be a way of rescuing the hidden life, and that way is poetry.

Glenn Gould: “The purpose of art is the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.” And wonder is everything to a poet.

Mandelstam: “We will remember in Lethe’s cold waters / That earth for us has been worth a thousand heavens.”

Seven propositions:

1. By way of Wittgenstein and Heidegger: A poem is a verbal construction which, through an array of rhetorical and prosodic devices of embodiment, achieves an order of being, an ontological status, radically different from that of other forms of discourse (with the exception of certain kinds of descriptive and fictional prose).

2. Poetry occurs at a considerable distance from the ego.

3. There exists an infinity of nonverbal meaning.

4. Science is progressive, but Art is not. It doesn’t get better; it just gets different. (The relevance and utility of all poetic forms.) See Mandestam.

5. Rules are made to be broken; techniques are made to be used. (They were never rules anyway; they were techniques. The freedom of the artist, like that of the lathe machinist, is the freedom to choose those techniques, those tools, that he deems necessary for the task at hand. The refusal to use technique-and, obviously, to learn it-is the refusal to be an artist, or at least a free one.)

6. Form is an extension of subject matter rather than of ideology or religious belief.

7. Meter is not the reins to keep the horse of the poem in check; it’s the heartbeat of the horse. Drop the reins. (Clearly this is an argument for meter rather than against it.) It is almost impossible to convince poets who never bothered to learn prosody that meter is something that emerges from within the language rather than something that is imposed externally upon the language. Even conversational English is very loosely iambic.

A poet is always limited by the fact that he has to write for other human beings.

* * * * *

Most of the other entries are at this level. some stupid, some interesting, none what I’d call a serious attempt to understand what poetry is, rather than what the effect of poetry the definer admires is.  Subjective philogushy rather than objective verosophy.  I’m not going to discuss any individual entries now so as to leave myself something to write about tomorrow.

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Entry 647 — “The Four Seasons”

Monday, February 6th, 2012

Here’s another of my earlier visual poems:

The clever bit was the upside-down m

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Entry 646 — “Homage to Wordsworth”

Sunday, February 5th, 2012

Today a not-very-good copy of one of the visual poems I plan to have in my next show:

Not much to say about it except that it is inspired by one of the more famous of Wordsworth’s sonnets, which describes how the ocean, “with his eternal motion make(s)/ a sound like thunder–everlastingly.”

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Number Poems « POETICKS

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Entry 1138 — Kostelanetz Fiction & My Rip-Off

Monday, July 1st, 2013

The first is one of the works on exhibit in my latest Scientific American blog:

Short Fiction

 

I couldn’t resist the temptation of rip it off–but kept the rip-off out of my blog entry:

 ScienceFiction.

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Entry 1759 — A Possibly Finished Poem

Saturday, March 21st, 2015

HomageToGomringer21March2015FinalOoops, the above is not my final version, this is:

HomageToGomringer21March2015

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Entry 1755 — Robert Frost

Tuesday, March 17th, 2015

The best English-language poets are named Robert, but Robert Frost would have been a favorite poet of mine even if he’d been named Adolph.  I consider his “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” the best straitverse poem I’ve encountered. So it was nice to see a review of a newly available volume of his letters in the latest issue of The New Criterion–although no surprise, considering how little interest to it poets younger than dead for forty years, figuratively if not literally, are.  It was good, too, to learn that the reviewer,  Andrew Hamilton, feels this collection of letters “should serve as a thorough corrective to (the view of Frost’s main biographer, Lawrence) Thompson as a “monster”–although I never have thought of him as anything but a sometimes cranky decent man, myself . . . although he’d be on my list of great poets however bad a human being I agreed he was, and that comes close to all that counts with me.

I bring him up not only to get another blog entry out of the way so I can go back to bed but because the quite interesting review of his letters   mentions his writing in one of them about how appropriate the language of his poetry’s is “to the virtues I celebrate.”  “Virtues.”  Didacticism. Poetry with a moral.  Horace’s stupid pronouncement that poetry should teach as well as please–although it usually comes up in reverse to the way I have it, reminding people that poetry should please as well as teach.  I’m an extremist here although I contend I usually seek the middle between extremes–unless I go for both extremes simultaneously.  I believe poetry should give pleasure, period.  Any teaching it tries to do will only distract from that.

But the first poem of my own I thought okay (the one in my 14 and 15 March entries)  pushed the virtue of wilderness versus ordered sterility.  My one about “tr,af:fi;c.” had nothing to with any virtue, though.  Which doesn’t mean someone trying to force it into everything could charge it with celebrating the virtue of winter serenity or something.  It does that.  A higher virtue it can be said to honor is the simple virtue of sensual awareness.  Perhaps at an even higher level it expresses my own religion’s highest virtue, reverence of the universe.  Urp.

But all this indicates is that virtue is a part of any poem to some degree.  Ergo, to permit discussion of virtue in a poem to be of value, one must distinguish explicit references to standard abstract virtues like honesty and tolerance (two of my favorites) from implicit references, implicit reference, that is, which the context of the poem fails explicitly to suggest may be there.  Only poems concerned with the first kind of virtue should count as moral poems.

I use the same kind of reasoning to justify my contempt for the frequent declaration that all poems are political.

By this reasoning, I consider my favorite Frost poems “lyrical,” which I use for poems the main intent of which is to give aesthetic pleasure, and little or no moral improving.  Ergo, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is not a moral poem–although it does convey a moral meaning: duty before pleasure, or something about the importance of fulfilling responsibilities.  Frost’s use of this moral message is brilliant, though: it’s only a frame to attach his much more interesting characterization of his persona to, whereas that characterization is only a ladder to a scene (in a [mood]) . . .  in Time.  But it’s all also in a poem, a poem that is a box of sounds as another sense that poem makes.

My traffic poem goes directly to the scene, with a box of punctuation taking the place of Frost’s box of sounds, and my poem as a whole doing less than Frost’s–but, I would argue, more for poetry.

Actually, my poem has a persona, too.  He just isn’t physically in the poem the way Frost is in his.  Nor is he brought anywhere near alive.  But he’s watching the sky’s descent.  He’s punctuating along with the traffic. . . .

* * *
Hey, everybody, wasn’t that a nice essay?!  Well, except for the snide remark about the provincialism of the The New Criterion.  Someday maybe I’ll write a little essay like this that’s all nice.  It may be a while, though.

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Entry 1753 — My 1st Full-Scale Hero in Poetry

Sunday, March 15th, 2015

In my little-selling Of Manywhere-at-Once, Keats was one of the six canonized poets I wrote a chapter about.  Yeats, Pound, Stevens, Cummings and Roethke were the others.  I suddenly realize that Stevens was the last of them to become a hero in poetry of mine–around 35 years ago.  None since.  Nor, that I can think of, any literary heroes of any kind since then.  Heroes of verosophy?  Perhaps.  More likely, no: because I don’t think I have any genuine verosophical heroes.  The one who comes closest is Nietzsche, but I consider him a literary hero.    I’ve greatly admired a lot of verosophers–Archimedes, Aristotle, Darwin, Newton, Dalton, Faraday, to mention a few–but not the way I’ve idolized and drenched myself in the works and lives of writers like Keats.  And a number of visimagists like Cezanne and Klee.  But no composers.  I guess the reason for this is obvious: I’ve become a writer, and (to a degree) a visimagist, but not a composer.  I consider myself a verosopher, but one unlike any I’m familiar with, except–possibly–Pierce.

It may be that I’ve had no cultural heroes since my thirties due to some flaw of mine, but I suspect one grows . . . not beyond, but off to the sides, of hero-worship.  Into too much of one’s own work toward becoming a cultural hero oneself to have as much time new ones.  One also will eventually have a number of contemporaries to take the place of heroes, albeit differently–as co-heroes rather than as worship-worthies.

In any case, in my chapter about Keats, I spent over four pages on his sonnet to Chapman’s Homer, which was one of the few poems I’d memorized by then (around the age of 18)–and, for that matter, one of the few I have ever memorized.  I wish I’d memorized many more, but I also wish I knew more than one language.  I tend to think I’ve stored all the data I’ve been capable of (as has everyone), so it doesn’t bother me inordinately.  Just a little wishfulness that a few things were not impossible.  Except when I’m in my null zone and realize that nothing really good is possible.

I only memorized one other poem by Keats (also at around the age of 18):

               When I have fears that I may cease to be                 Before my pen hath glean'd my teeming brain,                 Before high-piled books, in charactry,                 Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;                 When I behold upon the night's starr'd face,                  Hugh cloudy symbols of a high romance,                 And think that I may never live to trace                 Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;                 And when I fear, fair creature of an hour,                 That I may never look upon thee more,                 Never have relish in the faery power                 Of unreflecting love!--then on the shore                 Of this wide world I stand alone and think                 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

Note Keats’s glorification of “high-piled books” here and another poet’s accomplishment in the Chapman poem–his raw young poetic ambitions as a young man obvious, so just the thing to capture me at 18–besides the level of the writing.  Although poetry was never at the center of my writing ambitions until the past decade or so, by default.

(Aside: after going through my edition of Keats’s poems to make sure I remember the poem above correctly–actually to fix parts I knew I hadn’t–the level of his writing bothered me: in less than 26 years he composed more effective poems than I have in almost 75.  This is not false humility.  But I feel I have added to the poet’s tool-kit, which he did not, and ranged beyond poetry into a theory pf psychology, which he did not, and which I think beyond doubt an accomplishment of sorts.  Yes, competitiveness is an enduring part of my character.  I still consider more a virtue than not.)

Okay, back to my dictum about reading poetry to the extent that you devour everything you can of the life and work of at least one of them as I devoured Keats.  This resulted in several (but not a flood) of defective poems until I wrote the following in my twenties:

            I yearn to run madly into the brush              till a wild complexity of chance-created life              has cut me off from mortals' petty strife               I long to be where swift winds fill              with the joyful fundamental music of woods              & a gloriously unsymmetrified uproar              of grass and violets and weeds and rocks              covers every open field and curving hill.              I long to stand at the sweet dense core              of nature studying the clouds' slow schemes              till the regulated world              has blurred into nothingness              & I am in leagues with dreams..

This is a fair derivative poem, I now think, but indicative only that when I wrote it, I had reached the basement of the poet’s vocation–thanks to all the reading I did.  I’m afraid I have to admit that this lesson of mine isn’t much of a lesson, for if you need someone urging you to read poems and writings about poets before you’ll do it, all the reading you do will be a waste of time for you.  I did the reading I did because I had to.  and I had made a hero of Keats I had to find out as much as possible about, because of my genes, which made me search for a hero, then in effect become a sort of apprentice of his.  The real lesson is that you should save time by dropping the idea of becoming a poet if you aren’t already automatically doing this.   I suppose a minor implicit value of the lesson is to confirm you in your vocation if you have found your Keats–and encourage you to keep going if you have not, but are deeply involved with some kind of poetry.

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Entry 1752 — Break-Time

Saturday, March 14th, 2015

I was hoping to continue my lesson with an entry as good as I feel my one yesterday (mostly) was, but got involved in a duel of interpretations of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 24 with Paul Crowley at HLAS.  I still was planning to come here and work up a storm but Shirley took care of that.  Just as I finished my post for Paul and was about to cut&paste a copy of it in the flash drive I use for things like it, she hopped up on my computer desk, casually walked across my keyboard, then hit the floor again and walked out of the room.  In the process, she deleted everything in my post.  So I have to do it all over again.  I need to because I feel I said a few good things about the poem–and several important things about my discussion of it, which I first called an “explication” but which was not quite that, but–I eventually concluded–the beginning of what I call a “pluraphrase,” and now to make for the poem.  So maybe Shirley helped me.

As for the lesson under way, I found the poem of mine that I thought, and am still pretty sure, was the first poem I wrote that, as I put it in Of Manywhere-at-Once, I thought anything of:

            I yearn to run madly into the brush              till a wild complexity of chance-created life              has cut me off from mortals' petty strife              I long to be where swift winds fill              with the joyful fundamental music of woods              & a gloriously unsymmetrified uproar              of grass and violets and weeds and rocks              covers every open field and curving hill.              I long to stand at the sweet dense core              of nature studying the clouds' slow schemes              till the regulated world              has blurred into nothingness              & I am in leagues with dreams.

* * *

The “nothingness” is from the sonnet by Keats that ends, “. . . then on the shore/ of the wide world I stand alone and think/ Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.”  To make sure my lesson has a good poem in its entirety in it, I will quote the Keats poem in full in it.  He’s been dead long enough for the imbecilic copyright laws to allow me to do that.

One other thing I have to report is that I came up with a term for “haiku-sensitivity,” which has come to seem too specific for what I want a term to represent. “Minificance,” (mih NIH fih kehnts) is the new term–to represent “a sensitivity to something in poetry of minimlistic significance.”  “Haiku-sensitivity” would be a subset of this.

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Entry 1751 — Lesson 1

Friday, March 13th, 2015

I have an excuse to avoid truly beginning my lesson in how to compose an otherstream poem: another medical procedure, this one a sound scan of my thyroid.  Routine, I guess because I’m hypo-thyroidal.  Only took ten minutes.  Errands followed.  So, I’m barely unnull.  Nonetheless, I will try to get my lesson in today, beginning with lead-in excerpts of poems by Cummings, then the original (and now final) version of my (full) ooem:

 

* * *

MaybeMandolins

* * *

 
ThunderBlossoming
 

* * *

 

ArmenianRecord

 

* * *

traffic-original

* * *
 

If I were in a high school or college teaching this lesson (which, nota bene, is for absolute beginners, although I hope anyone reading it will learn from it), I would pass out hand-outs with the poems above on them to the students (student?).   Then:

IF YOU WANT TO COMPOSE ANY KIND OF POETRY:

Dictum 1:   READ POETRY!!!

(I’m tempted to end my first lesson there, but–heck–you’re all my good friends!  I can’t cheat you.)

Listening to poetry is okay, but reading it means you have it continuingly in front of you, so seems to me better.  It’s also difficult to attend readings or buy recordings compared to getting books or magazines with it, or going online after it.  In any case, I will be referring to printed poetry only.

I suspect anyone teaching a how-to-course in any kind of literature will tell you the same thing.  That doesn’t mean it’s wrong.  In fact, it’s received wisdom, and received wisdom is right much more often than not.  This bit of received wisdom is maxolutely valid–i.e., it could not be more valid.

The more you read poetry, the more of an idea of what it is you will get.  Beyond some dictionary’s probably inept, and certainly incomplete definition of it.  But by far the most important reason for reading poetry is to find poems you like!  And you will find a few before long, even if you read only publications recommended by college professors or other authorities if you seriously intend to compose poetry–as either a hobby (and there’s nothing wrong with that) or a vocation.

If you get through a few hundred poems and find none that genuinely excite you, ask someone who’s been around (like me) where to go for poetry different from what you’ve been reading.  If that doesn’t help–if, that is, you sincerely explore a reasonable wide variety of poems and are not excited by any of them, accept that you’re simply incapable of appreciating poetry–as I am incapable of appreciating gymnastics.  So what.

I should think anyone who knows enough about poetry to want to compose it will find poems that he really likes.  When this happens, as common sense would indicate, he must find out who wrote them, and look up that poet’s other poems.  If this goes well, he will automatically be strongly attracted to one or more, enough to become at least temporarily addicted to his work.

SubDictum 1:  When you have found a poet whose work you are extremely drawn to, read everything you can about his life.  If you feel like it.  I add that, and make this rule a “SubDictum,” because I followed it with great enjoyment and, I think, got a useful push from my vicarious identification with various literary heroes of mine.  But it won’t make a poet of you, and I suspect there are those without my interest in poets rather than their work, or literary history.  In short, ignore this SubDictum if you have little urge to follow it.

Dictum 2: This is my first teaching that a lot of poets and not all that few teachers of poetry will reject.  In fact, I would agree that it is not necessary for one wanting to become a poet; however, it is necessary, in my opinion, for one who wants to become among the best poets.  Those I therefore direct to read as much commentary on the poets whose works you most enjoy as you can.  Poetry criticism be Good!  So what if much of it, maybe most of it, is not too good; 90% of poetry is mediocre or lousy, too.   So read as much as you can, and zero in on those whose commentary you enjoy the way you zeroed in on poets whose poems you enjoyed.

One important thing they should do for you is path you to other poets writing work like the ones you like do.  Negatively-Positively, they may expose you to flaws in a favorite of yours that helps you to appreciate up to a higher level of enjoyment.  They should introduce you, in their negative commentary, to poets whose poor work will increase your appreciation of inferior work, which it is important to learn.  Or perhaps make you realize there’s poetry out there the critic doesn’t like but you do.  And you will begin developing a critical view of your own.

Dictum 3: WRITE POEMS!!!

Start by imitating the poems you’ve found you like.  Remember that you are just beginning and that it takes time to become anything of a poet.  In the meantime, it should not take too long for you to experience the happiness of effectively imitating something a hero of yours has done.  The chances are 999 to 1 that it will be part of a sub-mediocre poem, but that’s of no consequence.  Every poet’s first attempts are poor.  Regardless of the mothers or friends or teachers who praise them.

At this point I was going to show the value of imitation using the four texts above.  While writing my way to here, however, I realized that I should have used an earlier example of my own work.  I wrote a fair amount of bad imitative poetry when I began, and nothing any good until I was around 25 and wrote my “traffic” poem above.  It’s a bad example, though, because (in my opinion) quite good, although imitative.  There are special reasons for its success.  One is that it’s based on the simplest poetic form, the Classical American haiku form (which is derived from the form the Japanese invented–apparently–but significantly different from that in ways I won’t go into right now).  What’s more, the Classical American Haiku form is extremely explicit, and therefore easy to get technically right.

*  *  *

I feel I could keep going for at least a few more full paragraphs but I also think I’ve reached a good stopping point, and have a topic to discuss which may take a while to get through:  haiku-sensitivity, which I think a person is either born with or will never have, and I have it.  Urp.

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Entry 1750 — Found Original

Thursday, March 12th, 2015

trafficSorta interesting story about the above: it turned up yesterday in an email from Germany!  Remember, I was hunting all over for it in vain, then remembered it together–I thought.  Actually, I remembered “descent,” but changed it to “development.”  I forgot “mix.”  I think the original better than my revision.

To get back to the sorta interesting story, the email it arrived in–more accurately, the email that had a link to it–was from Kurt Henzel, a German who has suddenly discovered concrete poetry, and wanted to buy two books by Irving Weiss that I had published–and stuff of mine.  In his email, he asked for signed copies of two of my poems, the one above and “the poem r,” one of my favorite visual poems although never before mentioned by anyone.

Here’s the other:

ThePoem-rHere’s something else from the Internet:

resipiscence /res-ə-PIS-əns/. noun. Originally, repentance and recognition of one’s misdeeds. Now the act of coming to one’s senses, a change of heart. The Shorter OED’s formulation: “return to a better mind.” From Latin resipiscere (to recover one’s senses), from from sapere (to taste, to be wise).

From yesterday’s Katex–click here to find out about it. (It’s a newsletter or the equivalent put out by Chris Lott often has interesting odd words.  I posted this because it seems so much like many of my coinages–in other words, I’m not alone in my love of coining mouthfuls.  I also think I might find a use for this one.

* * *

Apologies, but that’s it for today.  Again, a tough day for me: a loss in tennis in the morning, both for me and my partner is one match, and for our team in all three of our matches.  Oh, well, we should not finish last, and the season will soon be over.  In the afternoon, two hours at my dentist’s (that increased my credit card debt by another thousand).

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Entry 1749 — Lesson One Begins

Wednesday, March 11th, 2015

I was hoping to make a complete lesson for this entry–the one I discussed yesterday for a how-to book for beginning otherstream poets.  I had so much trouble scanning the poems by Cummings I wanted to use in it that I’m too worn-out to try to write much of the lesson.

But here is my piece for the lesson again, followed by 4 excerpts of poems by Cummings that I stole the core-technique my poem depends on from Cummings, my lesson being about the necessity to steal from other poets:

            sky's piecemeal white                                development down buildings'                            dark sides into                                   tr;af:fi,c.

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ArmenianRecord

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MaybeMandolins

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ThunderBlossoming

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Entry 1712 — Ground Hog Day

Monday, February 2nd, 2015

This morning, at 4:48 A.M., I turned 74.  My Facebook Timeline is swamped with birthday greetings, which is very nice, but it bothers me that Mary Worth hasn’t yet wished me well on my day.  The card below from Karl Kempton almost makes up for that, though:

BirthdayPoem

I was delighted with this when I first looked at it.  A gorgeous design, yes?  After a moment with it, I realized that the message at the top was in code, and quickly decoded it, now doubly delighted, for I love codes.  Moreover, this use of a code made Karl’s design not just a birthday card, but a veritable birthday poem!  Karl had secreted his message in an underground that had allowed it to wend its way back into sight as little flowers, celebrating their secret message’s meaning!  What’s more, the two lines of sheer garden swirled into a single, three-dimensional super-blossoming: I had been given a master-poem with three levels for my birthday.

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Entry 1709 — I Done A New Math Pome!!!!

Friday, January 30th, 2015

The following is an accident, whether a happy one or a disappointing one, who knows.  What happened was that I was looking through my digital files for a poem for Bill Michele and came across the divisor and dividend of this one in a folder labeled, “Long Division Problems Worth Attacking.”  I immediately wanted to attack it.  What’s below is the result (so far–I’m not sure whether it needs more work or not):

SentimentalLongDivision Poem-No.1

 

I think I was in the mood to work on it because of my thinking about HSAM yesterday.  It may be my first autobiographical long division poem.  The only unauthentic thing in it is the divisor.  Actually, they may well have been there, hard to imagine they would not have been.  But they’re not in my memory of the episode.  Extremely sentimental, yes?  It’s very simple but perhaps still “difficult” for many . . .   Will it nonetheless make me famous?

I’d sorta like to do more poems like it, but have no ideas for any yet.
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Entry 1699 — More Scraps

Wednesday, January 21st, 2015

Scrap #1: Yesterday’s mail included another chapbook from Mark Sonnenfeld, Check Check Done and Done, half of it devoted to poems by Mark and half to poems by Dory L. Williams.  Good reading but one thing in it by Dory L. Williams really knocked me out: to me, it’s an epigram, because a statement of an opinion, so according to my taxonomy a work of informrature.  Be that as it may, it’s as good an epigram as I’ve come across in years, if ever:

Covetness

If you want fame and money without real
achievement behind it, you’re not greedy enough.

Scrap #2:  After I posted yesterday’s entry, I remembered a central feature of Iowa Workshop Poetry I’d intended to mention before any other, but then forgot: it’s the recognition of the potential of ordinary subject matter for tranfiguringly successful poetry–as in Williams’s “The Red Wheelbarrow,” and in all the best haiku.   I am all for ordinary subject matter . . . but it can’t do much unless connected to archetypal matter one needs to be in one’s magniceptual awareness to be able to employ.  Williams’s poem is, finally, not about a wheelbarrow anywhere near as much as it is about Beauty.

Lesson for poets: keep explicit abstracts and generalities out of your poems as Ezra tells you to, but build you poems on them as I tell you to.  This, incidentally, you don’t necessarily have to consciously strive for, but you must be able to recognize when something worthily archetypal begins to show under your poem’s words so as to strengthen those words’ connection to it–and/or weaken the visibility of their path to it.  The archetypal foundation of the best poems is much more often understood in their engagents’ marrow long before it’s dealt with the reasoning parts of their higher faculties, if it ever is.  (Few poets have very large reducticeptual awarenesses or scienceptual awareness, which are where analysis is carried out.)

Possibly more important than the connection to the archetypal is the technique, the freshness of the technique employed to make that connection, which is usually metaphorical.

I’m just repeating old thoughts of mine, disorganizedly.   Jus’ tryin’ to make it through another blog entry.
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Entry 398 — “The Tide,” a Poem Poem « POETICKS

Entry 398 — “The Tide,” a Poem Poem

.            The Tide

.            A long stare smelled its way
.            past the lantern’s purpled lisp
.            against kerosene mares radiant in
.            the prenatal barn storm
.            that Poem
.            was tearing the petals off of.
.            Behind him, the Hawaiian sidewalk
.            sidled dangerously into a canasta game,
.            like misspelled lemonade
.            remembering where the jewels were.

.            The tide was later than usual.
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I threw the above together so as to have something here.  Believe it or not, I then revised it!  I only changed a few lines, though.

I’m beginning to think I’ll never have a blog entry with any real content again.  A real disaster, Kevin Kelly is now prowling this here territory, lookin’ for poems to throttle, and he’s brutal.  I could deal with him back when he lived in or around Port Charlotte, but he’s gotten a lot meaner since he moved.

5 Responses to “Entry 398 — “The Tide,” a Poem Poem”

  1. Geof Huth says:

    You know that Kevin Kelly guy always reminded me of Surllama for some reason.

  2. Bob Grumman says:

    I’ve always suspected they were one and the same–the two l’s in Surllama are strong evidence of it. And, of course, they are both maximally crude fellows. . . .

  3. Kevin Kelly says:

    Ha, ha! Remember Todd Russell aka Huck Finch? He told me before I moved to California, something to the effect of: “Don’t let California change you, Surllama, I mean Kevin” and I remember thinking, “Nothing can change me!” … and then I became a snob. It happened about four years ago, to be exact. I’ll have to admit, it felt good to give in, like a warm bath of salt.

  4. Kevin Kelly says:

    But seriously, sir, I’m trying to ONLY comment on the stuff I like (hence, the scarcity of any comments … I kid!) … and I like this here poem. I have to admit, I’ve always liked your poetry when you start talking about the tide and the phone ringing to itself, etc. My favorite line by far: “like misspelled lemonade” Good imagery! So there.

  5. Bob Grumman says:

    Well, I’ve always said negative comments are more helpful than positive ones, but your positive ones have definitely been helpful. As for Huck, we’ve exchanged e.mails since you’ve left. He’s sent me invitations to the parties he yearly has, but I’ve not yet been able to get to one. You should e.mail him, or facebook him. I think he’s on Facebook.

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Entry 1 — My Blog Starts Anew « POETICKS

Entry 1 — My Blog Starts Anew

7:30 P.M. 2 November 2009

Thanks to mIEKAL aND, I am now blogging again. My vague intent at the moment is to tackle what I think visual poetry is, from the point of view of a wacked-out (extremely uncertified) theoretical neurophysiological psychologist. By which I mean that I intend to use the effects on the brain (according to my theoretical psychology) of what I consider visual poetry to define visual poetry. Starting tomorrow.

Warning. Blogging here using WordPress is new to me, so expect even more than the usual foul-ups.

2 Responses to “Entry 1 — My Blog Starts Anew”

  1. Geof Huth says:

    Bob,

    This is scary. A proper looking blog with real commenting functionality! Maybe you’ll become a blogger next!

    ~scary~

    Geof

  2. Bob Grumman says:

    My definition of a blog differs from yours, Geof; I think
    it should impart information, not glitz. Though the ease
    of making comments here is nice. One could comment
    at my old blog, though–which was a blog, possibly the
    best around, if one goes by the fewness of visits to it,
    which is the only valid way of measuring a blog’s value.

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Entry 583 — The Text of My Triptych « POETICKS

Entry 583 — The Text of My Triptych

 (This is a day late but I had it done in time, honest!  I just forgot to change the “private” setting to “public.”)

For lack of anything else to post today, which is one of my null days, here’s the text of the poem in the sub-dividend product of the frame from “Triptych for Tom Phillips that was in yesterday’s blog entry:

          From is for every bound alled.
          Similarly, if is alled. {urthermore}.
          This is also the.
          + infinity (actually, the symbol for infinity) in port ever.

This is basically something about the allness of the state of from-ness and if-ness. “Urthermore” has something to do with final origins although right now I can’t think what. So does the the from Stevens that whatever “this” refers to is also. Positive infinity is said to be forever in port. All this is a close representation of “arrival,” needing only the graphic shown as the remainder to exactly represent it. The fore-burden of the text (for me) is that a poem is an arrival. Note, however, that this text has three different direction to turn into a departure into. To begin a consideration of one of my most ambitious and complex works that I will say a little more about, maybe, tomorrow.

* * *

Saturday, 3 December 2011, 5 P.M. Not a great day–the least productive since I started my attempt to be culturally methodical. I post my blog entry for the day, but had it done yesterday. The only thing I did so far as the exhibition is concerned is get my triptych printed at Staples, buy three frames for it, and frame one of the two sets I have. It does look nice. But I think I see how I can make another triptych that’s much better.

I also played tennis.

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