Henry Chettle’s Testimony Regarding William Shakespeare
I contend that Chettle speaks of the Crow of Greenes Groatsworth of Wit as a playwright in a preface he wrote for a pamphlet of his, Kind-Harts Dreame (1592). There, he mentions two playwrights who had taken offense at the Groatsworth, which Chettle edited or wrote. Here’s the key passage: “With neither of them that take offence was I acquainted, and with one of them I care not if I neuer be: The other, whome at that time I did not so much spare, as since I wish I had, for that as I haue moderated the heate of liuing writers, and might have vsde my owne discretion (especially in such a case) the Narrator being dead, that I did not, I am as sory as if the originall fault had beene my fault, because my selfe haue seene his demeanor no lesse ciuill than he excellent in the qualitie he professes: Besides, diuers of worship haue reported his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writting, that aprooues his Art.”
The first point I want to make may seem a trivial, even dopey point, but it will prove important, trust me. It has to do with the reactions of the two playwrights who complained about what the Groatsworth said. In the case of Playwright #1, Chettle says (immediately after the passage just quoted), “For the first, whose learning I reuerence, and at the perusing of Greenes Booke, stroke out what then in conscience I thought he in some displeasure writ: or had it beene true, yet to publish it, was intollerable: him I would wish to vse me no worse that I deserue.” Playwright #1 therefore had to be complaining of an injury done to him personally since Chettle would not likely have thought, prior to meeting this man, that he “stroke out” a passage for him, or in his behalf, if the line were about someone else. That is, while Playwright #1 could have been upset over something said about someone else, Chettle would hardly, when readying the Groatsworth for publication, notice a passage that maligns Mr. X—intollerably—and at that point decide to take it out for someone other than Mr. X., in this case, Playwright #1.
In the case of Playwright #2, Chettle says, “The other, whome at that time I did not so much spare, as since I wish I had . . .” Ergo, Playwright #2 had to have taken offense at an injury done to him personally (and specifically) because Chettle is speaking of now wishing he had spared him—as opposed to wishing he had spared someone else concerning whose treatment Playwright #2 was upset. Moreover, Chettle goes on to give as his reason for now wishing he had
spared him the fact he had “seene his demeanor no lesse ciuill than he excellent in the qualitie he professes: Besides, diuers of worship haue reported his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writting, that aprooues his Art.” Would it make sense for Chettle to wish he had toned down words insulting Mr. X—Playwright #2, who had taken offense on Mr. X.’s behalf—has turned out to be a very decent and worthy fellow?
Now, if one accepts that each of the two persons took offense at having been personally maligned by something in the Groatsworth letter (and I think one must accept that, if nothing else I argue), it follows that the two must have been among the persons the Groatsworth letter
specifically mentions (and this is why my point was important to me to make). There were six of these, but two who were briefly mentioned but identified in no way toward the end of the letter are too insignificantly referred to, to count, even for the anti-Stratfordians I’ve read.
So, we’re dealing with just four persons: the Crow, and the three playwrights to whom the letter was addressed. So far as the playwrights the Groatsworth addresses are concerned, I agree with the consensus among literary scholars, a strong one, that identifies them as Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Nashe and George Peele. Their identity isn’t crucial to any of the arguments I’ll be making, but it’s important enough to say a little more about it.
The first of them to be mentioned is spoken of as a “famous gracer of Tragedians,” a description that would have best fit Marlowe among the playwrights writing at the time, according to D. Allen Carroll, whose 1994 edition of the Groatsworth is the main source for my comments
on the Groatsworth. The Groatsworth-author also describes this playwright as having prosecutably wild opinions on touchy matters like religion, just as Marlowe was reputed to have had. The Groatsworth-author wonders if the cause of this is that “pestilent Machivilian pollicy (or unscrupulous cunning) that thou hast studied,” and not only did rumors have it that Marlowe was a disciple of Machiavelli, but Marlowe had Machiavelli serve as the Prologue to his play, The Jew of Malta. It is thus “by near universal consent” (Carroll states) that the
Groatsworth-narrator’s “famous gracer of Tragedians” should be taken as Marlowe.
The second playwright the Groatsworth-narrator addresses is believed to have been Nashe, like Peele and Marlowe, a known associate of Greene—and whoever the Groatsworth-author was, he is in this letter playing the part of Greene, which means the associates he refers to ought to have been genuine associates of Greene’s. Chief among the reasons it makes sense to take the second playwright as Nashe is that the Groatsworth-narrator calls him “yong Juvenall, that byting Satyrist” and Nashe, just 25 then (nine years younger than Greene), was the preeminent satirist of the time. The Groatsworth-narrator advises him to leave his targets anonymous so as to avoid getting “many enemies by bitter wordes,” and Nashe had more than once been attacked by those he had previously directed “bitter wordes” at.
That the third playwright is Peele is based almost entirely on the Groatsworth-narrator’s roundaboutly bringing in St. George in what seems a rather transparent hint at Peele’s first name—and the lack of anyone else better for the role. But the third playwright is also said to have been “driven to extreme shifts,” like the Groatsworth-narrator; that is, as Carroll points out in a footnote, the third playwright was, like the popular conception of Peele then and now, in “constant, near-desperate want.”
It is true, too, that the reference to St. George would tie into Peele’s reputation as “an outrageous jingo in politics, a fire-eater and mouther of marvelous patriotic hyperboles” (C. F. T. Brooke, Literary History of England, edited by Baugh, et al. [1948], 455)—as particularly indicated by the publication of Peele’s poem on the Order of the Garter, which makes much of St. George, England’s patron, in 1593, the very year of Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit.
So, the four candidates for Playwright #2 are the Crow, and Marlowe, Nashe and Peele. To cut this number by one, we can in short order dispose of Marlowe—by showing that he was Playwright #1. This makes sense because Marlowe had by far the most reason of anyone
dealt with by the Groatsworth letter to have been upset by it, for it described him as a disciple of Machiavelli, and claimed he had said, “There is no God,” and gave “no glorie to the giver.” At the very least, then, the letter accuses Marlowe of atheism, about the most serious offense one could be charged with then, and of Machiavellism, which was close to satanism for the letter-writer, and many other Elizabethans. How could Marlowe not have protested?
Moreover, there’s Chettle’s saying that he “stroke out” something in the letter about Playwright #2 that “had it beene true, yet to publish it, was intollerable. Unlike Nashe and Peele—or the Crow (so far as we know)—Marlowe could well have been guilty of something it would have been “intollerable” to impute to him (homosexuality, the scholarly opinion is, though why Chettle would have viewed that worse than atheism, I’m not sure). Marlowe also seems to have been considered especially learned and more likely to have been “reverenced” for it by
Chettle than any of the other three. He was clearly irascible, as well—the kind of person one would not be surprised Chettle found hard to get along with, for he was twice involved in duels, and died in a tavern brawl (or the equivalent thereof—except for those who believe he
wrote the plays of Shakespeare). That Marlowe was Playwright #1 is therefore close to universally acknowledged.
Which leaves Nashe, Peele and the Crow as the only viable candidates for the position of Playwright #2. There is a definite problem with the Crow’s candidacy, one that I’ve avoided to this point for the sake of narrative flow. It is Chettle’s saying that the Groatsworth letter was
“offensively taken” by two of the playwrights it was addressed to, which would exclude the Crow, who was not addressed by it. I claim, however, that Chettle overlooked or forgot that the letter was not directly, only indirectly, written to the Crow. Chettle, in this interpretation, would have done this because he wrongly assumed the Crow had been one of the playwrights the Groatsworth letter addressed. Not a bizarre error on Chettle’s part, and quite plausible if he rushed his apology, as he and many authors of such bits of journalism in those days did (and still do in ours). That he did indeed rush his apology is strongly suggested by its slapdash nature. For
instance, Chettle says the Groatsworth was written to “diuers playmakers,” which suggests that he hasn’t a copy of the letter at hand as he is writing, or is not consulting it very closely if he does, since three is less than most people would take “divers” to mean. He then says that the letter was offensively taken by “one or two” of the play-makers it was written to—again, an inexactness that suggests hurried writing.
His reference to the offended pair, who “wilfully forge in their conceites a liuing Narrator,” is something short of respectful, yet just a few lines later he describes the second of the two in glowing terms and says he is as sorry that he let the bad parts of the letter through unedited as if he had written them himself—that is, his tone changes drastically, and he pretty much contradicts his earlier stance toward the second play-maker—evidence, again, of hurried, careless writing.
The only other point against the Crow I know of is similar. It is Chettle’s speaking of how well-known in book circles Chettle was for hindering “the bitter inveying against schollers,” which strongly suggests that he viewed them, as the OED has it, as men “who had studied at the university, and who, not having entered any of the learned professions or obtained any fixed employment, sought to gain a living by literary work.” The Groatsworth also uses that term to
describe the playwrights it was addressed to. Since the Crow can be presumed for several reasons not to have been a university man, he could not, the reasoning goes, have been Playwright #2. But, (1) that Chettle says he’s tried his best in the past to temper exhanges between scholars does not necessarily mean he must now be speaking of an exchange between scholars—he may be speaking of just an exchange; (2) he may have meant by schollers, simply “writers”; he does seem in this passage to use “scholler” and “writer” as synonyms (as do others of his time); or (3) he may have thought Playwright #2, whom he did not know, was a university man, or—not knowing whether he was or not—decided to be courteous and treat him as such,
or—again (shame on me)—have forgotten that he was speaking of university men.
Just to thoroughly confuse the issue, Thomas Beard in 1597 said of Marlowe that he was “by profession a scholler . . . but by practice a playmaker and a poet . . .” thus distinguishing between writers and schollers. Whether Chettle wrote his apology carelessly quickly or not,
though, there are good reasons for believing that the Crow was one of the two who took offense—reasons that, in my view, trump the two (weak) reasons against just given.
One is that Chettle makes a point (implicitly) of addressing the charges made in the letter against the Crow, point by point. To begin with, the Groatsworth charges the Crow with being riff-raff, a lowly actor, cruel and inconsiderate, ungenerous, a braggart; Chettle addresses this by asserting that the second playwright has a civil demeanor—is in fact, a decent fellow.
The Groatsworth is sarcastic about the Crow’s ability to create blank verse; Chettle speaks of Playwright #2’s facetious grace in writing, etc.
The Groatsworth couples the Crow with those who have, it would seem, unfairly denied Greene money in his time of need; Chettle speaks of the second playwright’s uprightness of dealing and honesty (or honor).
The Groatsworth scorns the Crow’s occupation, acting (the Crow is an ugly black creature without the dialogue supplied by his betters), but Chettle praises his “qualitie,” which he implicitly grants at least respectability as something professed.
Now, it might be protested that I’m claiming some care on the part of Chettle here, and full remembrance of the details of the wrongs done to the Crow—in direct contradiction to my previous picture of a sloppy, forgetful Chettle. True; however it seems plausible to me that Chettle could have checked that part of the letter that was complained of,it being the main reason for his apology, before writing the apology but not bothered with the rest. Chettle, to go on, speaks of wishing he’d spared Playwright #2 more than he did, not that he wishes he spared him entirely. This also favors the Crow as Playwright #2 because the Crow was manhandled not only personally, but as an actor, in insults of actors scattered throughout the Groatsworth letter. For Chettle to have removed all the bad that was said about actors would have disposed of just about the whole letter, so he could not have entirely spared the Crow. He could, however, have entirely spared any of the other two in the running by removing, in Nashe’s case, the only line that spoke ill of him in any significant way, one about his having been made to consider religion “lothsome” (and every other line that some anti-Stratfordian thinks could have offended him, like one saying he and his friends would be “base-minded” if they didn’t heed the Groatsworth-narrator’s words); in Peele’s case Chettle could have removed that same line, since it referred to him (and Marlowe) as well as to Nashe, plus a reference to him suggesting that he deserved to be poor since he’d cast his lot with actors. One additional point in the Crow’s favor is that only he among the playwrights mentioned in the Groastworth has some vocation other than his art, as Chettle’s text suggests Playwright #2 does, for it covers four of his characteristics: his demeanor, his vocation, his character and his art. It would be strangely unbalanced diction to speak of demeanor and vocation, and then character and vocation (as would be the case if the play-maker’s art was his vocation)—that is, to praise his writing twice in such a locution. This doubling of occupations strengthens the case for the second play-maker’s being the Crow since none of the other three playwrights of the Groatsworth letter had any vocation other than writing. It also tends to indicate that the second play-maker’s vocation was acting, the same as the Crow’s, Chettle using “qualitie” secondarily to imply that. What else would the man be professing whose excellance Chettle would have been in a position to judge? Aside from that, as several scholars have pointed out, “the qualitie” the Crow is said to profess was often used in Shakespeare’s time to mean specifically the acting trade.
My final argument for Playwright #2 as the Crow is the unlikelihood that the Crow, maltreated personally as a bad but very conceited would be playwright with a cruel heart who, it is implied, was party to ignoring the dying Greene’s needs—and was, on top of it, an actor, and thus about as degenerate as can be (see the line about “Epicures” again for just one piece of evidence of that)—would not complain. It seems to me that I have now established the Crow as a viable
candidate for Chettle’s second playwright. But what about the other two? Might they not be even more likely candidates? I believe not.
There are several reasons for eliminating Nashe, whom I will take first, from consideration. He may have been treated a little condescendingly in the letter, but it’s hard to imagine he could have taken offense at it, particularly inasmuch as he was also flattered. (The letter terms him a “byting Satyrist” who ought to “inveigh against vaine men, for (he) canst do it, no man better,” but he ought not to name those he’s satirizing. The Groatsworth never personally insults Nashe.) And the compliments Chettle directs at Playwright #2 would do nothing to address any complaint Nashe would have had about what the letter said about him personally.
Besides that, whereas Chettle states that he had not previously met either of the playwrights who took offense, he probably knew Nashe. Both he and Nashe specialized in pamphlets, were on the same side in the major disputes of the time, and were intimately connected with
Danter, who published the Groatsworth and pamphlets of Nashe’s (though it is unknown whether they both knew Danter when Danter put out the Groatsworth). Moreover, in Have With You To Saffron-walden, Nashe asserts he’s not some contentious maniac who attacks everyone
without reason: “…I neuer abused Marloe, Greene, Chettle in my life, nor anie of my frends that vsde me like a frend; which both Marloe and Greene (if they were aliue) vnder their hands would testifie, euen as Harry Chettle hath in a short note here,” which indicates that he and Chettle were friends at some point in their lives. As does Thomas Dekker’s A Knight’s Conjuring, in which Chettle is described as an “old acquaintance” of Nashe, Marlowe and Greene.
It should also be pointed out that Nashe publically denied gossip that made him the author of the Groatsworth. It would not seem likely that anyone would suspect him of that had the letter contained anything maligning him seriously enough to be complained about.
As for Peele, the Groatsworth letter says of him personally the following: “And thou no lesse deserving than the other two, in some things rarer, in nothing inferiour; driven (as my selfe) to extreme shifts, a litle have I to say to thee: and were it not an idolatrous oth, I would sweare by sweet S. George, thou art unworthy better hap, sith thou dependest on so meane a stay.” This seems to me a pretty weak denigration, though Jerry Downs feels that someone “of Peele’s
pretensions” could have been quite hurt by being described as poor. I doubt that but even so, what would all Chettle’s compliments of Playwright #2 do to assuage such a hurt? Why wouldn’t he have found “divers of worship” to say Playwright #2 was thriving?
In conclusion, while there is evidence both for and against each of the three candidates for the role of Playwright #2, the evidence for the Crow is much stronger than the evidence for the other two, and the evidence against the Crow much less reliable than the evidence against
the other two. From this, it follows that Chettle testifies that the Crow was a playwright, thus corroborating my argument that the Groatsworth-author said that. This additional evidence that the Crow was a playwright, in turn, helps confirm the Groatsworth’s identifying him as the particular playwright, William Shakespeare.
That Chettle also speaks of Playwright #2’s civility, something Jonson, Heywood and others noted about Shakespeare, and of his “facetious grace in writting,” which is close to the way Shakespeare’s writing style is often thereafter described, is strong secondary evidence that laywright #2 was the Crow aka William Shakespeare. In conclusion, Greenes Groatsworth of Wit and Chettle’s preface, taken together, are sufficient to pretty much confirm that William Shakespeare was an actor/writer, by themselves. But we knew that already, right?
Hi, Bob–
Thanks for the chance to look over your rationale–if that’s the word. Maybe “rubric,” as the departmental committeeists like to say these days. I certainly see what you’re doing here (like the kid who finally “gets” a long division answer right by himself), and follow your explanation o.k. I just want to note two things that work as a kind of impediment for me, which involve one comment about your explanatory process. First, just taking the thing at face value, trying to reason it out, I come up against the “heart” image–as you say, a valentine heart. You’re very aware of the great variety of associations individuals have to words, and here you have one word whose associations would surely differ in the norther and southern hemisphere, in temperate zones and near the equator, in mountains and in deserts (that’s “February”), one word whose associations mostly (I think) depend on cultural mythologies (still, does “Zanzibar” carry those mythologies for Africans as well as Americans?), and one word (actually several words–it’s a homonym) that in one of its manifestations is replete with a great variety of religious significances (you don’t seem to mean, though I don’t see why you couldn’t, a part of the head)–and these, I’d suggest, might be quite intense and quite various, differing for Jews, Buddhists, and Christians. And you have one visual symbol that, misreadings aside, I’d say, can only mean one thing: the division sign. You divisor, meanwhile, is that “heart” image, and here (at last) is my first concern: what does the “heart” image represent? Certainly not (except ironically) the same for me as for some dreamy teenager getting his/her first valentine’s card. The “heart” is also a _heart_–that is, if you aren’t simply swirling in a romantic daze, it calls to mind actual hearts, like mine, with its four stents and tendency to buck under certain circumstances. Your explanation certainly shows that you’re conscious of all these polyvalences and multiplicities, and your anchoring them to a sign that assumes definite properties of number might be read as ironic or “poetic” or simply perverse. But I don’t see how your explanations either explains or explains _away_ the huge variances that might emerge from all those associations. It doesn’t really tell me how I might “appreciate” that kind of compression of logic (the division sign) and imagery (the expression of constructions of the imagination), despite the indisputable fact that this dimension of your mathemaku is also a dimension of most poetry–a dimension notable for it variety of configurations, I’d say. My second point concerns your association of the form with haiku–a connection you carefully and correctly qualify as you offer it. Believe me, I see what you mean, and the fact that I don’t agree with your claim shouldn’t be seen in itself as a criticism of your mathemaku–I just think that haiku work very differently from the process of these poems, that the relation between logic and reason feels very different to me in the haiku and in what you’re doing. In fact, I think I see a kind of dissonance at the heart of your poems, a tension between the freeplay of the image and a desire for definitional/logical rigor represented by the mathematical element. It seems pretty alive to me–a good thing, as lots of poets go there to die, at least as poets.
Good luck with your show, Bob, and happy new year–I hope these comments turn out to be useful to you in some way. That’s certainly my reason for sending them along.
best,
Jerry
Thanks much for the most excellent probe, Jerry. I don’t think there’s much difference between your take on what I’m doing and mine, when I go deeper into it than I wanted to in this little guide of mine. My only comment back (for now) is that I generally take it for granted that my poems (usually) are by someone from Connecticut for North Americans (even though I now live in Florida). So, yeah, the Australian version will have to have “August” substituted for “February!”
all best, Bob
Bob,
I came here because of your post on New Poetry.
My first memory of what we now call ethnic conflict is the massacre and expulsion of Indians and Arabs accompanying Zanzibar’s independence – also my earlist memory of Zanzibar. I had just turned 11, just become interested in politics because of Kennedy’s assasination, the first few people I knew personally who died or were injured in Viet Nam, and the conflicts in Louisville (my hometown) over school and housing desegregation. And, as Jerry McGuire wrote above, Zanzibar was closely associated wth the slave trade — it was, in fact, East Africa’s most important slave port. So, for me, Zanzibar is, rather than a symbol of magic and mystery, a reminder of immense, deliberately caused human suffering. Multiplying Zanzibar and a Valentine’s heart, for me, could result in a temple only if it were a temple desecrated by the heart’s blood of a suffering people. But then, I don’t have a very high opininon of temples either. Until recently, they were among the most efficient causers of murder.
I think this points to a general problem with visual poetry – imagery is not discursive; its meanings are not bound with the same force with which verbal meanings are bound. Neither, of course, are bound with anything remotely like the precision of mathematics. In your mathematical visual poetry, you try to introduce something like syntax with mathemaical symbols, but the things you link in this way are simply not bounded in the way mathematical terms are. Your Zanzibar is not my Zanzibar, or that of any person with a serious interest in history or poiltics, or, for that matter, that of a commodities trader in the spice market or that of a lover of cloves, so placing it in a quasi-mathematical function will yield wildly different results for different “readers.” Integer division is not like that: even the repeating decimals resulting from operations like 10/3 can be precisely and uniquely located on a number line by constructive methods.
Not to say that verbal lyrics don’t have some of the same problems: we no longer sing “My Old Kentucky Home” with all of Stephen Foster’s words, even though Frederick Douglas thought those original words aroused “sympathies for the slave, in which anti-slavery principles take root and flourish.” (That last from the wikipedia article on the song)
Thanks for taking the time to comment, Mike. I would only say that I believe the context of the poem will eliminate the political connotations “Zanzibar” and “temple” have for you for those with a serious aesthetic interest in poetry. As for “things I link” with mathematics not being “bounded in the way mathematical terms are,” that’s a main point of my mathematical poems–exploitation of the tension between the poetic and the mathematical, or anti-poetic. And the mathematical elements (I wouldn’t call them “functions,” myself) are mathematical, not “quasi-mathematical.” The long division is long division–but long division of words rather than mathematical elements. Finally, though, my presentation is not intended to defend long division poetry, only to show what I hope is a way to appreciate it, at least for those of my temperament.
What, by the way, do you think of those who despise formal poetry because it seems to them fascist?
To answer your question – there is no historical connection between formal poetry and fascism. In fact, Ezra Pound, probably the most important proponent of of “new” forms of poetry, was an explicit supporter of Mussolini, the original fascist.
Here’s a question for you – if the mathematical elements are, in fact, mathematical, then where is the logical structure to show that its results are the necessary (even if only probabilistically so) consequences of initial premises and formal rules?
There doesn’t have to be a historical connection for formalism to be considered fascist, a philosophical one will do: the fact that rules are forced on people by both fascism and (strict) poetic form. But that’s beside the point, which is that some people subjectively consider formal poetry fascist or authoritarian and therefore flawed the same way you subjectively consider a poem with “Zanzibar” in it politically tainted and therefore flawed. In both cases one is unable to put aside political feelings that really have nothing to do with the poems involved. Obviously, I’m not writing a poem honoring a dictionary as being part of some war and/or slave-trading, nor do your sonnets have anything to do with fascism.
As for the logical structure you speak of, I’m not sure what you mean. What I believe is that the long division symbol, which I call the dividend shed, acts in my poem exactly the way it does in arithmetic: it states that what is inside it is to be divided by the term to its left. Or: it asks what the term on its left has to be multiplied to equal it, or almost equal it. The difference is that the terms are (usually) words; but they are metaphorically taken to act like numbers to reveal a relationship among them like numbers in a long division reveal how they relate to each other. Intuition takes over from pure reason, or pure reason sets up a situation allowing an intuitive (poetic) understanding of words (or whatever non-mathematical terms are involved, such as graphics) to find out something new about how they inter-relate–or something old arrived at in a refreshingly different way.
It’s mathematical poetry: half mathematics–the operation–and half poetry–the terms. Mathematics might be said to be taking over (in a way) for metrical form.
I would ask what is going on in the poems if nothing mathematical is. Surely the dividend shed is doing something.
Another thought: how would you take the following equation: agility times height equals success-in-basketball?
–Bob
Just a quick very partial response before unconsciousness – agility times height does does not equal success-in-basketball without thousands of hours of drill and practice. And the shed is a metaphor, not a bad metaphor, but not mathematics.
That should be “thousands of hours of drill and practice under the guidance of a very good coach and in the company of of other players, similarly talented and well-coached.”
The dividend shed is mathematics used metaphorically. As for the basketball equation, what I want to know is what you take it as, not how valid you think it. Is it in any way mathematical? But change “agility” to “potential,” if you want a greater degree of validity.
Bob, three messages back the “the mathematical elements are … mathematical, not ‘quasi-mathematical’,” now it’s “mathematics used metaphorically.” Which is it? And, for the life of me, I can’t see what difference it makes to substitute “potential”for “agility.” Mathematics is a formal system defined in such a way that the outcome of a set of operations performed on a particular set of properly formed inputs will necessarily produce such-and-such a set of results. Metaphors don’t work that way. Poetry doesn’t work that way.
I would never claim that what you do is not art — it’s sometimes very good art, which is all any of us can hope for. But it certainly isn’t mathematics, and while it sits fairly comfortably next to more traditional poetry, it should be no surprise to you that poets generally don’t feel it has much to do with their work — no more than you think sonnets have much to do with your work.
I’ve been thinking a little more about the connections between fascism and Ezra Pound’s dictum “make it new.” There was a sense in the early twentieth century that everything could be remade in more rational form – even, and perhaps especially, human nature. Fascism and Communism were both attempts to do this, despite their very different notions of the Good. Artists from both sides of that divide worked to discover new forms to encourage/model/engage what they felt to be the newly emerging human consciousness, and both sides, both politically and artistically, declared old forms to be “reactionary,” or “bourgeois.” Free verse was most definitely connected with this revolutionary spirit, and formal poetry definitely considered by the revolutionaries on both sides to be an affront to the new orders they respectively desired. Art is always messy, and there were certainly exceptions on both sides, but there is a way in which metrical verse is a celebration of the continuity of the human endeavor while free verse is a deliberate attack on that continuity: “Make it new.” Both Fascism and Communism, and the various poetics of the new poetries, assume that human nature is infinitely malleable — but it is not.
It isn’t as important that there be or not be rules for doing this or making that as it is that what rules there are arise from a delight in and a respect for human capacity and desire as they are revealed in spontaneous human interaction with their world, including the other people in it. Metrical verse, rhyme, and narrative, from their ubiquity in human culture, clearly are genuine expressions of that human capacity and desire.
Of course, so is war. But madrigals don’t kill people.
I give up, Mike–I see no way of making you see that my poems are mathematical, just not entirely mathematical. The dividend shed works the same way in my long division poems as it does in arithmetic. Its mathematical operation is then used metaphorically, but that doesn’t make it not mathematical. In fact, to work as a metaphor it has to remain mathematical.
As for free verse linking with fascism, a politics of slavery, I don’t see it. Again, though, I was not arguing that formal verse and fascism go together, but something else. (See preceding comment.)