Journal VIII: Poetry
You may have noticed that I publish a fair bit of poetry here. This is a bad habit, and I hope you will forgive me. I am self-indulgent in my verse. I love it. Half my posts here have been verse. It is the structure of my thought: line by line. Why? What is it in the line that I love to love? I don’t know. Something there is in the well-tempered verse that delights us. So, I’m gonna ramble about poetry for you, Sweet Reader.
Have you ever read “To Autumn” by John Keats? If you haven’t, please do. It is one of his Great Odes—the six he wrote in 1819 when he was twenty-three. They are among the finest poems in English and “To Autumn” is the last of them. Written in September, it opens with one of the most beautiful lines I have ever known:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Isn’t that lovely? He goes on to talk about Autumn and how nature conspires to bring about the harvest:
[...] to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
Rhythm and melody: prosody. It’s a delight to the mind. I love Keats because he is a young artist. He is an idealist and a romantic in the truest sense. There is innocence in his verse, and sadness, and reverence, and it is a shame that he died before he knew that he was one of the great English poets. His unwritten works would have been remarkable.
Many people have been moved by Keats. His famous love sonnet, “Bright Star” is a testament not only to the delusion of romantic passion, but also to the comfort of those in whom one finds deep love: steadfast they are. I have cited it not only to refer to lovers with whom I have been infatuated but also to friends I feel such a reverence toward that we must occupy our periphery like the firmament—to be the Bright Star in each other’s lives. Keats must have felt something like that in his intense emotion for Fanny Brawne, the subject of “Bright Star.” She was a deep love to him, but also a dear friend.
Poetry is diverse in interpretation and meaning. In study we should remember that we are free to take art on our terms rather than hunt needlessly for the intentions of the artist. The artist’s meaning blossoms after their art, whether they’d like that or not. Their art belongs to the world now and not to them. Keats would understand this. It is why we shouldn’t be concerned with the ethics surrounding Max Brod’s publication of Kafka’s unfinished work1 or with the publishing of intimate, filthy letters shared between James Joyce and Nora Barnacle2. Who wrote the Epic of Gilgamesh? We did. We just happen to know the names of those who’ve recently contributed to the Human Canon.
Poetry is a means of acquiring humanity, of seeking truth beyond certainty within the confines of one’s perceptions. It is a gift for us like all art, and not a thing to be hoarded or held over others. Poetry is often ‘beautiful’, but ‘ugliness’ often makes it: there is a need to have one’s suffering expatiated. Poetry does not disdain the ugly, the dirty, the profane, or the mundane. Rather, poetry seeks to raise these things above their station. To say: look—there it was, fetid, glorious and unremarkable. It’s a beautiful kind of magic that is often misused and misunderstood.
We’re not great at meaning, despite our best efforts. The problem with language is how we all develop our relationship with meaning independently. Even though we come from the same source, we diverge inevitably in minuscule ways that matter more than we admit. Poetry is a worthwhile practice because it compels us to consider what meaning lies behind the words we use. When I say: I love you; we know what that ‘means.’ When I say: You hurt me, I hurt you, but I love you3; we recognize we are no longer meaning what we presume explicitly from any of those words. There is something deeper, a story and passion. Of course, we will still cull this deeper understanding with our independent and diverse perceptions, but it is the practice of deep interpretation that can lead us into a higher comprehension of language and expression. Perhaps, we can even foster greater compassion for our fellow species.4
Let’s discuss the romanticism of poetry for a moment. Romanticism is an artistic philosophy and ought to remain a term applied only to the artistic sensibility stemming from that discipline5. Today, our ‘romantic’ often enables romantic idealism. I do not like romantic idealism. When Shakespeare wrote:
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
he was trying to warn us against romantic idealism. Trying to remind us: yes, this is beautiful to us, but its beauty is not its meaning or value. Romantic idealism encourages a fantasy that is distended from reality: an illusion built from the pleasure of loving. Romanticism indulges in the joy of fantasy without trying to condemn a love to a certain shape or expectation—it is a free facet of nature. This is why I find a lot of modern confessional poetry to be so maudlin and uninteresting: there is not romance, only romantic idealism. Poetry is an opportunity to engage with the limitless interpretation of the senses. More often in popular poetry, it is now a kind of product: a commodity. There is little opportunity.
Matter is matter. This is a strong foundation for poetry. All else comes from the combat against that truth. We must engage in idealism, of course, but we cannot surrender our words to idealism alone. We must seek new meaning within. Then, we share it in case it may help another. There is no limit to this form of expression, but it can easily be limited by influence. Therefore, ignore influence6. Write poetry.
In writing poetry, you do not seek to raise an object above mere matter, but to give your subject space to break the surface of meaning.
As a young poet, I was terribly guilty of aggrandizing my objects. I had muses in others’ forms and not in my own passion, and this held me back from deeper expression7. I was well-meaning, of course, but my meaning was unwell. The words were just sweet or cute. They may have appeared romantic to some but now I think they were broadly self-indulgent and immature. I do not write love poems often these days8. When I do, I try to avoid an object and write for a subject instead. An example: On my best friend, whom I love dearly, I have written such maudlin verse in my youth. I have been in love with them periodically and once I wrote poetry for them as though they were a living Muse of myth—or the kin of Aphrodite. Now when I write of them, I try and explore what is meaningful between us and not what is meaningful to me about my love for them, or what I think is meaningful in my perception of them. They are an artist, a songbird, a bit of star-shine, a scrap of what is good in Us. In this way, they are the light of the candle, but they should never be the candle. For, I am the candle. We are the candle. I love them; and because I love them, I ought to tell the truth and seek beyond. They are of me, but unto themselves before. When I have felt the ache of old manners, I have often ended up saying something silly to them that causes some strife between us. Thus, the practice of good poetry is the practice of good love and friendship also. Let us write a four-line poem (a quatrain) for my best friend:
Six—now nearly seven—years, and We are steadfast still; untethered though sometimes We are, I know you are for Me, and I for You. — for C.
This is a good practice: write a ‘love’ poem that is not romantic. Write it for your best friend, your dog, your favourite tree, yourself, that lonely cloud you see in the evening, or even for a piece of cheese. Love is all around. Sing to it.
But I am rambling, I know. That is what I promised at the top of our discussion, no? Let’s discuss something else. Returning to Keats, let’s go a layer further in our considerations. One last little ramble. Let us address Keats’ Negative Capability. But first, a passage from Shakespeare:
The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.
This speaks well enough to what I have said already and to what I am about to say. When Keats talks about Negative Capability, I believe he is referring to that place of no-mind where poetry should first root itself. One may have an object or a subject of verse but the quest for meaning must come from an absence—or surrender—of ‘truth’. Only this way can we be honest in our expressions and come to new understandings (‘truths’) about our objects/subjects. To put it another way: To write poetry that does the writer well—and their audience—one ought to practice killing one’s identity. Don’t be self-indulgent. Trust only in the Force. This is not easy.
Perhaps this is why I find so much of the modern confessional poetry so unpleasant. In this vein, I am referring to the likes of Kaur and others (yes, I’m going there) who sell two thousand words—mundanely arranged—for the same price as a novel of two-hundred thousand. This isn’t to say that there is not artistic value in such poetry (others find value in it), but that it falls quite short of the art’s potential and thus disappoints the endeavour of the reader (thereby disgracing them). It is self-indulgent and does not seek to deconstruct or disrupt philosophy. It tells us nothing we don’t already know. It is maudlin truth put in pithy lines that forsake depth for shallow meaning. It is accessible, but hardly acceptable. We should expect more from such writers.9 Thom Young put it best in describing this as “fidget-spinner poetry.” We’re grateful for the interest and accessibility but what is lost matters: poetry should be subversive, not reproductive. Depth > Popularity, but this simple algorithm fails the attention of most audiences. It doesn’t sell so well.
I value Keats’ Negative Capability and have found deep practice in understanding that emotional set. It has compelled me to work beyond the age of Instapoetry and to find some meaning in the space between form and emptiness. After all, you can write small poems that have deep meaning. Take Bashō:
The cry of the cicada Gives no sign That presently it will die.
This is so small and simple, but you may see the depth it carefully professes like a reflection of the moon inviting one to turn their gaze upward. Haiku is a topic for another post, but if you are to start anywhere with poetry, there is a good place.
Poetry ought to be regarded as a "thoroughfare for all thoughts," as Keats put it. This is fundamental to my work here as the Distended Orthonym. I am trying to embody a panoply (analysis) of voice rather than a cacophony (synthesis) of ideas. There is no direct goal or truth about this place. It is a Mansion of Many Rooms. It is a theory in practice rather than a project in motion. I am writing poetry. Truth comes in sweet drops of honey.
I’ve little doubt I will have another rant on this topic in the future. Some of what I’ve said here may seem distended, unstructured, or elusive. That’s fine. I’m not a scholar, just a writer. I am not intelligent, just passionate. I wanted to invite you into that space for a moment and see what meanings we could muster together. I hope you have enjoyed Us, Sweet Reader. Now, go and read and write some poetry.
Famously, Brod disobeyed Kafka’s wish to have his unpublished material destroyed after his death. God save the mann.
You may find these yourself. James Joyce was brilliant in a savage way and seemed to carry that into his romance by way of eproctophilia, coprophilia & lurid fantasy. Not to kink-shame, by any means. They’re just rather disarming letters.
Maudlin but effective for illustration.
Ironically, this may be difficult to understand. I am not always good with expressing my own meaning. Nonetheless, it is worth discussion and consideration.
Yet, we all turn up our own inevitable meanings and conclusions, thus perpetuating this micro-Babel between all peoples.
We all have influences, of course. Thus, what is the role of our influences in our expression? Influence is merely inspiration given a face. We should not be attached to influence but querulous. We should command our influences. Do not keep them: let them wander. When they are needed, they will come. Love is like this. Attachment is not love. Thus, do not attach oneself to love and so sully one’s loving. Wear your heart on your sleeve, but do not incessantly tug at your sweater lest it unravel.
Granted, this remains a developing story. I am masterless, so what the hell would I know?
A fucking lie, Sweet Reader.
Christ, just say you don’t like Instapoetry, Will. — T.