Showing posts with label Wallace Stevens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wallace Stevens. Show all posts

10.18.2020

Continuity of American Poetry


In 1961 cultural historian and Americanist (& specialist in New England Puritanism) Roy Harvey Pearce published a book, The Continuity of American Poetry.  Clearly a labor of love, the work is a meticulous and passionate appraisal, unfolding a kind of American pantheon, from the Puritans to the mid-century moderns - with a special focus on the "long poem" - culminating in a juxtaposition of Eliot and Stevens, as representing two fundamental modes or "basic styles" - the "Adamic" and the "mythic" imagination.  Both modes hinge on Pearce's central insight : that the specifically American literary challenge (or quandary) has to do with an American urge to manifest a new, democratic concept of "Man" (in the species sense) - in the midst of a raw, pioneering, Puritanical, pragmatic culture which was (in most ways) strictly "anti-poetic".

The book arrived on the cusp of change - when the clashing perspectives of (for just one of many examples) Eliot, Stevens, WC Williams and Marianne Moore were crystallizing in separate canonical camps (New Critics, Projectivists, Objectivists, etc.), and when a younger generation was about to scramble the checkerboard - Robert Lowell's Life Studies, the Beats, the New York School.  And it left out so much (just about any poet who was not white & male, basically - with very few exceptions).  These are some of the probable reasons that Continuity of American Poetry has fallen into oblivion.

Yet Pearce's Continuity has a powerful logical backbone.  Its central argument makes for an impressive coherence, a cohesive intellectual synthesis.  The argument might be bowdlerized thus : American history is rooted in New England Puritanism.  The Puritans' forthright adventure into the wilderness, armed with their Protestant, separatist focus on Biblical scripture rather than ecclesiastical authority, set the tone for the pious, devotional, anti-poetic emphasis on Man's utter depravity - on the complete vanity of worldly hopes - and on Man's total moral abasement and dependence on divine grace.  These touchstones of belief and worldview ensured that the writing of poetry would be at best a devotional exercise, at worst a worldly & possibly heretical hobbyhorse.  This basic attitude did not foreclose the writing of Puritan poetry : Edward Taylor, Anne Bradstreet and others still found ways to harp in the wilderness.  Yet its main consequence was to set in motion - by opposition - what became the major mode of American poetry : the antinomian, anti-devotional, egocentric, "Adamic" imagination.  What began with the prophetess Anne Hutchinson's exile from Boston, led to Emerson, Whitman, Dickinson, and all their heirs : the American poet's declaration of independence from any and all European shackles or constraints.

Pearce's depiction of the 20th century involves a dialectical reversal.  Robert Frost is the exemplar of the American antinomian impulse reaching its rueful cul-de-sac; he is the sage of diminished expectations, the voice of disenchanted Adam.  Pound and Eliot initiate a counter-thrust : not the poet as creative Adam, but poet as passive, memorious Tiresias.  Surrendering the futile, failing human ego to the mythic and post-mythic absolutes of traditional faith, Man is reconciled to eternity (see Eliot, from The Waste Land to Four Quartets).

Wallace Stevens, then, for Pearce, represents the culmination of the American No, in thunder to this powerful impulse (via Poe, Eliot & Pound) to reject Whitman's democratic America and its Adamic imagination.  Stevens, in a sense, formalizes the modern, existential vision of human dignity without the Modernist "myths" of God or gods.  He declares and celebrates the sufficiency of the human imagination - in the face of the harshness of material Nature and an intuition of unknowable, alien Mind - and seeks heroic joy & praise in the midst of the storm (there's something very Beethoven about this poetic Mozart).

I've left out Pearce's forecast that future generations would find a way through this either/or.  And I've left out one of the main threads of his thesis, having to do with the development of the American long poem (Whitman-Pound-Crane-WC Williams) as the expression of a completely new form of epic : a tale in which there is no exemplary, legendary, semi-divine epic hero, but in which the poet is the hero, the speaking protagonist, of the new American (& cosmic) imagination - shaping a new vision of human dignity rooted in complete equality : Everyman and Everywoman at the center of reality.

And reading this book puts me face-to-face with my own posture in this field, as a longtime practitioner of the "long poem".  Looking for reinforcements, I've been reading a short book (proceeds of a lecture) by Edgar Sheffield Brightman, from 1925 : Immortality in Post-Kantian Idealism.  Brightman was a philosopher of the "Boston Personalist" school (out of Boston University) - one of Martin Luther King's intellectual influences.

One of the things Brightman asserts is that our beliefs and opinions regarding the immortality of the human person are inseparable from the general cultural ground or worldview out of which they manifest; they are incomprehensible if simply abstracted in isolation.  This is of a piece with his characterization of human reason and logic : he follows the German Idealist philosopher Johann Fichte in proposing a dual architecture of rationality - understanding (analysis) and reason (synthesis).  Both are necessary : we analyze experience in order to synthesize its meaning as a whole, as an organic, living entity.  

This approach - holistic, organic, synoptic - seems to me to be of the essence with regard to poetry.  Poetry is the living speech of living men & women, shaping holistic representations of actual experience.  

Wallace Stevens celebrates this imaginative synthetic human essence with great probity and power.  Yet I have to disagree with him with regard to his most basic postulates.  I stand with the Boston Personalists with respect to theism & a-theism.  

So with poetry, and the vision of poetry,  I feel I am floating somewhere there between Eliot & Stevens, Pound & Crane, & Berryman.  The Personalists argue that the synthetic human imagination, and the organic wholes of full understanding and rationality, encounter a Reality suffused with creative Mind and Purpose; that individual persons do not create the Universe ex nihilo, but reflect and complete that cosmic synthesis in the working-out of their own free destinies - and thus fulfill the graceful purposes of the Creation from in the beginning.  Persons are not dissolved into the One, but manifest it - personally.  And this manifest human dignity - this imago Dei - is the ultimate synthesis of nature and spirit.  So we are not, pace Stevens, existential isolatos, lost in an immeasurable and incalculable natural chaos or storm.  Nor are we superhuman ("major Man") masters of our fate.  Rather we are caught up in Martin Luther King's cosmic "web of mutuality" - a universe of (hopefully) immortal life, moral conscience, and truth, which undergirds and underwrites human dignity and freedom in mortal time and history.

It's getting late, so I will close up here.  (This post is really a throwback to the old bloggy table-talk of HG Poetics days of yore).

4.15.2020

down around Kay-Rho



SALT-LICK

Prince Henry Hal, like a latter-day Latrobe
went surveying his great property
in swamps – following Path P
down around Kay-Rho, mapping his globe.

& he was most lost.  Loster than lost.
His sidekick Hobo sighed.  Said –
this palm at the end of your mind
holds an eye that glows, a wave-tossed

moon.  Pearl, embossed with diamond
& rubyemeralds for eyelashes.
There, where kingfisher splashes
a quatrefoil rose window, set in almonds.

Notre Dame burned down today, Hobo.
The blaze destroyed the spire,
almost the whole… – F’ sho.  Fire
will do that.  But there’s another one, y’know.

We already passed that house.  Down MLK
Way, on Black Elk Boulevard
(in Buffalo).  Look hard,
Henryyou’ll see him sign the X-tree

with his fingermark the six trails
like a phosphor Southern Cross.
His medicine mends every loss
’twas his last full measure split the rails

like lightning.  Now the brave who give
their lives to heal the sick
come to his green clover salt-lick
circle the hearth-fire – bright, contemplative.

4.15.20

4.04.2020

that hexed hexagon



PRICKLY ROOFTOP

Only a light whisper of April snow
feathers the riverbank today.
The wind-serpent will flay
with rippling wings its own mud-brown

flow.  The cottonwoods lean overhead
like ribs on a canoe.  Gray veins
of some cast-off snakeskin.
Glass fane of Great Worm (empty, shed).

Where are the springs of yesteryear?
This April curls from cold
& back to cold.  From cold
to cold – inhuman, viral (some Shakespeare

Villon).  So the chill indifference
of animal aggression marks
its seal on each snowflake.
Each one unlike (unique monstrance).

So who invented this immaculate snow?
A mind of winter?  Or
a dreaming Melchior – his
clouds on high, his Bethlehem below?

We sleep, we wake… like soft snowflakes.
We drift, we float… we land
& melt upon a child’s hand.
The soul is like that dark green pine, makes

rough & prickly rooftop – root foundation
for each spindrift, wayfaring
Romany light-traveling
human earth-heart time-migration

*

– so hear the art then, O spiraling 
hearth!  Martian enfoldment
like arms of Odin, bent
around himself – whole tree corralling!

For Snowflake is that hexèd hexagon
of heaven & earth, joined
in your heart, coined
Abraham – red copper of the gun;

that regal object-dart of adoration
– tangled boomerang, returned
upon itself – urned
at the apex of our celebration;

the bread & wine of every sacrifice
offered by universal Everyman
each time she lifts the can
for mite or gold doubloon… our price.

The light snow sweeps across Ireland
& Minneapolis-St. Paul.
A sweet lamb looks from wall
of van Eyck emerald, almost human (sand

or salt will reveal her, underneath
Mississippi varnish).  Flowers
are eternal, soul-power
is substantial… MELEK shall bequeath

his welcome-gift of bread & wine
on his way to Memphis
for the garbage men.  This
my bodythis my blood.  Lamp, shine.

4.3.20

3.18.2020

like an unremarkable cup nest



SLOW CHANT

Brown river, in a transept of browns.
In a gully of mid-March.
She slides by Arch
to Gulf, to be engulfed (drowns).

A scrawny bird scrapes overhead.
Plain sea-gull?  Or
some magpie pio-pio
newsy jailbird finch (last heard

in 1938)?  What about Mudpie Robbins,
the St. Louis Cardinal?
Pitches his meta-material
nested steady state hysteresis (spins

on clumps of slag – chaotic shmush
of paired radii
with reversible pi
slippage).  Camouflage whoosh

like an unremarkable cup nest, filled
with grass & rootlets…
one a them twig safety nets!
Jams into stadium – an emerald,

mobile stable of staple u-particles
crowded along a spectrum
between sand, cotton… some
aleatory compass… (see Hunter King articles).

Over the chained bay waters
rhumb line of pilot-bird.
Oscillating upward
into a faery 4-leaf clover’s

             *

earliest, minuscule sward…
as a Newport plover’s
nimble track veers
o’er sand waves (Ocean bard).

So from the lifeless mineral heart
of Minotaur, a green
sprig, emerald gemstone
springs.  With Nestorian art

(Eugenio’s grin) all the birds of the air
assemble in the palm tree;
a mustard seed (tiny,
fiery) molts to canoe (in her Ferrara lair)

& branches crossways, into quatrefoil; 
the remote & royal midnight
blue of Southern Cross (right
up there) hovers over river-soil,

& the Firebird (that sole Pentecostal
scorching glossolalia
slammed into orb-regalia)
skims from our Mater Dolorosa

biomimetic widow Rose… bent
beneath rose window
(Apollinaire’s slow
chant out of humbuggery, resilient).

So the nesting instinct of the Nazir,
the mother Hen of Rabbi
Rooster-Crow, will sigh
& spring an Easter egg (O Chanticleer).

3.18.20

11.05.2019

essential graphene histrionics




AUTUMN NIGHT

My biographical Brown Decades tumbled
rapidly by, in Providence.
How simply the silence
of these beseeching trees (autumn

at the Arboretum) speaks to me!
Alex Weinstein, in Mt. Auburn...
stood there with Sandy (Grecian
Urn?  Likely committed it to memory).

He played the violin at 91.
EmigrĂ© from Odessa –
fruit-fly research @ Columbia –
loved poetry & science... (thread-thin,

stooped, seraphic gentleman
of Cambridge Mass.) –
& so the fleet years pass,
callow Henry, to Thanksgiving (amen,

amen).  I put my faith in one
contextual canoe –
dry tacit Quaker taboo
against unquestioned superstition;

a sort of Boston Personalism
accepting each whorl
of conscience as the real
sign of some ineffable wisdom –

spring, source, coil, J
spiraling beneath a moon
brighter than cogitation
tonight... in a jumbled chaos of hay

                  *

stacked (by osmosis-creation)
across twistronic history
into graphene infinity.
Histrionics of pacemaker nation?

No, kid – it is the equilibrium
of a canoe or gyroscope
emanating (spilling hope)
out of the heart of the Imperium

accosting the Seizer of All Good
with adjusted reciprocity
of infinite mercy –
that normative hearth-neighborhood

established on the everlasting rock
of I & Thou, of eye
& dhou (equality
the ratio of the basic J’nah-Ark).

& so the weird Isis-receptacle
of Mirror-I-Am
fuses in twin-rhyme
with Notre Dame; so the spectacle

of male narcissism becomes unviable
at ordinary crowing
of Rhode Island Red – being,
like palm at the end of the mind, able

to hoot like Owl o’Athena
in the autumn night of
history   (the shadow of love
bending over your cradle)   Ephphatha

11.5.19

6.15.2019

no one will judge it



Bang Hai Ja, Naissance de la Lumiere, 2015 (part of a stained-glass project for Notre Dame de Paris)

BIRTH-SIGH

Light-waves pulse from primordial Ocean State
from a weightless blazing stone
fallen to our temperate zone
from heaven – & no one will judge it

murmured Joseph, ye blessed stem;
the Word’s articulation
is well-water’s spoken
wheel (from Nowhereland to Bethlehem).

Our history, a contentious dream
scrolled on Möbius tape
pivots its bleak landscape
panorama on a polestar theme :

the plummet-stone, a river-pilot’s guide.
Her name is Providence.
She is each local habitation’s
hopeful capital – ghost by your side;

she is the sister-dove of Mandelstam,
rock-dove of gay Stevens;
she is the Jonah – Berryman’s
& Crane’s last lifesaver (she says I AM).

I see the shadow of gray wings of stone
stretch like a whisper now
from East to West, Glasgow
to Golden Gate; lifting each broken bone

from Frisco shore to some imperishable joy
like Hummingbird lancing the curse
& labyrinth of Homo Tyrannos
with one birth-sigh... her FIAT LUX... that Day.

6.15.19

10.25.2017

We few, we happy few



PARIS JACK
                        i.m. John Berryman (on his birthday)

October burnishes the oaks
to ruddy bronze.  Ancient
St. Crispin’s Day, meant
for veterans, the player-folks

of Agincourt & Balaclava
(ours not to reason
why)... bright caparison
of mental mists, pink pillbox (ah,

Jackie).  Man, the intelligence
of his soil... what triggers wars?
Mobs of blood & tears...
flame, shadow-boxing with a fence...

In chessboard worlds of red & black
for every victor there’s
a loser too – King Henry’s
brother-band meets Paris Jack,

sad Roy du Jour.  So each Garfield
meets his Guiteau – the best
& worst, the first & last,
the wheat & tares blent in a field

of glory (shriven up in sheaves).
Was it for blood & soil?
Intelligence of soul
says no.  What man or woman loves

in battlefield or study is
glory itself, & fellowship
in pain (joined at the hip) –
not flags or nationalities

                  *

but one star over Ark & Argo-ship.
Light from a tiny acorn
grows resplendent Okean
sunlight of restoration (skip,

Jackie, Jean, around that Minotaur
of stupid pride – a hollow
idol full of nothing, O).
This living Imogen is where you are.

Let’s stand with that Shakespearean
from this day to the ending
of the world.  His battling
with fright (mother loss & father gun)

an inward thing, not of the arrogance
of windy crowds (a victory
over himself the only
guarantee of happiness).  An instance

for the rest of us (the human race,
that is).  Restoration
of an idea – of a nation
of united nations, reconciled by grace

& with humility.  Familia of Man.
As Imogen stepped from the cave
so Henry might rise from his grave
– somehow Franciscan, now.  His plan

simply to walk across these states
barefoot, like Mark Baumer –
glad-handing poet-palmer,
Johnny Appleseed (with acorns, dates).

10.25.17

5.13.2017

from Agate Rock



WHITMAN BREEZE

A pink drift of crabapple petals
lights the rust-brown bricks.
Hobo sniffs lilacs
through your gazebo’s flimsy walls

of ragged cedar.  Transparent air
& Saturday quiet;
a tiny spider’s lucid net
shines like platinum from here to there.

His soul’s invisible as God.
His heart beats slowly.
Time in the Family
of Man sways over Land of Nod.

His hammock is a green hummock
where hummingbirds & robins
warble, strum... Someone’s
calling you, Hobo (from Agate Rock).

You loved the looming sweep of limbs,
the creaky oaks in autumn
storms... quick, winter’s come.
The columbarium of paper hymns,

a windy wasp’s nest in your heart,
the melancholia
of sentimental sigh,
chilly memorial... you play the part,

poet.  These lilacs will not last.
Odysseus, in the Sirens’
grip, resists – sharpens
his ears – clings to the swaying mast

                  *

shuts eyes against his blinded sense.
Light tiptoes through, at last.
The shrouded cosmos (vast,
remote) circles a pilot’s evidence;

the pole star of his meditation
lifts into incarnation
(ark of a nation
anchored to her own grave station).

So Hobo’s apple petals scatter
in a spring chaos.
The Minotaur lurks close.
Greed splits matter from anti-matter,

rigid red from angry blue.
These violet bowers
dangling sweet flowers
bend over you in vain, Hobo.

Your dark twin leans from Golden Gate.
Her black hair beckons toward
the deep.  Only my Word
is closer to your heart, shipmate

your heart, & hers.  A violent order
is a knot of pain, a riddle
of ingratitude.  They fiddle
while my planet burns, smolder

in contemptuous hate (for neighbors
not their enemies).
Mauve Whitman breeze...
salt loveliness of tide’s martyrs.

5.13.17