Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts

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 Mรถbius 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

5.16.2019

Down the Mrs. Nile




BLACK MARBLE

The slow green river is historian as well, 
moving with time from here
to there, yet always here
same as ever, with detritus of fossil

shells – eroding palimpsest
subject to misquotation,
willful erasure, mistaken
readings...  Observe that anxious,

fretful archivist – thin railing Ez
with his fistful of heroes
impaled on total loss
(a maze of smoking Flanders trenches).

Like a Minotaur in the bughouse
with his Schifanoia grid –
hierarchical, to put a lid
on greed, by force (his Musci-Louse).

What then’s this chaos of bad dreams?
Life’s horror-show?  Not so,
not so.  PAX.  What thou
lovest well...  After the steamboat schemes

Latrobe still floats his capitol design.
Cornstalks, tobacco flowers...
Virgo, with Isis-powers,
on the adamant of time, will shine –

black marble out of Nile (West Branch).
Not abstract or Pythagorean,
but human, Galilean –
shepherd in Ravenna – beaming avalanche.

5.16.19



3.21.2019

Reply to a question re : Ezra Pound, Hart Crane

Susan Brown, my gentle interlocutor in this ongoing explication of Ravenna Diagram conundra, emailed to ask for more detail on what I meant (in the "Preliminaries") by my statement that in this epic poem (that is, in Ravenna Diagram) I was mounting a challenge to Pound's presentation of history (in his Cantos, his "poem including history"), with help from Hart Crane.  This was my response :


Quick reply, Susan : my sense is that Pound, despite all his Dantesque and Provencal medievalism, his knowledge of medieval scholastic theology, tends to deride and downplay the "Hebraic" dimension of Western culture-history.  There is a strong occultist dimension - the Eleusinian mysteries, Neo-platonism, etc.  Also the very marked Fascist tendencies, the Nietzschean(?) disdain for Jewish and Christian compassion.  Pound is not consistent : my "argument" with him is not very fair.  But it's there.  Pound's "poem including history", in my view, pretty much eviscerates the basic Jewish-Christian foundations of (at least) the Western dimensions of world history.

Another aspect of all this concerns Crane.  Pound (like Eliot in some ways) was a nostalgic expatriate living in Europe.  He was a political authoritarian, a reactionary.  Hart Crane, despite his Platonic-visionary leanings, was devoted to Whitman and the tradition of a mythical, futuristic America (Crane's "Atlantis"), rooted in democratic values.  This is, I know, a great simplification and idealization of Crane.  Crane has a special symbolic place in Ravenna Diagram and in my writing in general, which I won't get into now.  But the STYLE of R.D. owes at least as much to Crane as to Pound.  For I long time I sensed a kind of sonic stylistic affinity between Crane's idiom (his imagery and sound) and Mandelstam's approach to imagery, metaphor & sound.  Which (sort of) became my own approach to imagery & sound.

3.14.2019

transcendental & irrational path P




THIN BANDS


The outer circle of this diagram
is drawing to a close.
The path P we chose
here loops into its ruddy oriflamme.

An old man’s line of numbers,
transcendental &
irrational.  Thin bands,
ketched for riding heavy combers –

sea-path between good & evil.
One people’s destiny
doubled in duality;
twin circles on their parallel


                **


emerge (amid stars & stripes
& iron bars).  History
halts here : between Rimini
& Ravenna (Venice-Paris) overlaps.

The pilot at the wheel of Providence
eyes the prow of his canoe.
Her figurehead (1132)
blooms from the sepulcher – immense

Redemption, like a Stonehenge grail
from 44 B.C. to 4.14.
Melchizedek stands in between.
The plummet-eye of Joachim sets sail.

3.14.19


1.17.2019

to restore a soul




SECRET WORLD

To restore a soul, to mend a broken heart
out of the wells of memory
for relief of misery
for your grace we pray.  A crane bone flute

keening her lonely call might still redeem
the wind that carries it
on the storm-clouds.  Fiat
lux – though the darkness loom.

This primitive wooden Vierge Ouvrante
unveils her secret world
with a copper hinge.  Old
masters of le Verbe significant

carved, flickered into form
a buoyant microcosm
within her oaken beam –
a human shelter from the storm.

Cicadas buzz amid burnt branches
of a poem framing history.
It is a mystery.
Isis on her throne, Ariadne’s hunches,

spider-Minotaur in his plangent web...
the sacrifice of innocence
behind a screen (some dense
thicket of Pig’s Eye Social Club).

The wind is clear & clean tonight.
Whole homesteads rise
toward ordinary Paradise,
warm lips forging a female Paraclete.

1.16.19

12.16.2018

& know the place for the first time




STEEP HEART

The mystery of the Incas, how
they filed those giant stones
at the top of mountains
into close-fitting knots (above, below).

The slim knife-edge, the penetration.
On behalf of balance,
lamb-tethered violence...
one must die, for the sake of the nation.

Something about moss-covered stone,
arctic lichen.  Colors
on a rough-hewn wall (yours,
mine).  Collage of blood & bone.

Memory, mother of muses
lead me back to your
stone milk-splashed door.
Ancient well-bench (sea-roses).

The eunuchs of the kingdom come
& go... their simple habit
underneath the gibbet
simply to repeat the sacred OM.

Alpha, Omega.  History unwinds.
He’s humble, sheepish
as a goat – Ish-
mael, or Solomon.  Pay him no mind.

The one thing that happened, historically
was that an innocent nobody
became king for a day.
Steep heart, remind me... let us pray.

12.15.18

8.10.2018

serpent ocarina




FEATHERED WHEEL

The king is carrying his cross
wearing his crown of thorns.
Only his mother mourns.
The restless crowd is at a loss.

So history plays out
on broken banjo string –
scratchy LP spinning
over & over the tethered Scapegoat

Song.  A narrow beam of rust-
red copper, through shade
of rock.  Copperhead
of light.  Serpent mouthing dust.

Tan sand (some Navajo camouflage).
Everyman, eaten
by ants.  Has-been.
Hobo, dreaming in a stream-montage.

Nobody.  Only air, flashing
like feathered wheel –
Thunderbird heel?
Lo, him – Kingfisher, splashing.

In the clay matrix, Morning Star
pirouettes in Paris
for Apollinaire.  Pax
lounges with Liberty, while from afar

twin pillars of a temple rise
in unison – an azure
octave, lifting her
amid dew-glittering, sea-breathing sighs.

8.10.18

10.21.2017

rim of that heavenly Rome



COSMIC BATTLE

Inching back with my mother down
the nursing home hallway
from dining hall... hey ey
yo.  Keep her from falling (too soon).

Sprightly, amnesiac, brave.
We filtered burnt photographs’
international orange (‘70s
epitaphs).  Look – you still wave

from chilly distance, eldest one.
Your sister, brothers... your
father, meek & mild... War
obliterates peripheral vision, son.

Like game of hangman (simplified).
Figure out the letter
in the word.  Row, Edgar
Poe – enough rope be dangled

like that infamous platform
lifted out of season
like Francis from prison...
only to travel far from harm

along a single beam of light.
Real American creed
spooling through Voodoo
Queen Marie – gonna be all right.

Antithetical Poe held
his ivory casket
in a bird-basket –
row, row, coracle... spelled

               *

IONAH on the bow... over & out
for now.  The cosmic battle
between Caesar & that
measly songster (Stalin puttin’ Anna

into the hollow double-barrels
mimicking Utopia – everyone
happy in warehouse, hon)
becomes a set of Shaker castanets

or scallop-shells of Aphrodite;
– a skirmish in St. Louis
soars above Cahokia (she’s
us) into a supple Rimini-

design.  The poet, poison-pounded
pharmakon, cribbed out
his hazy Paraclete
in limestone layerings – founded

Apollinairy nothings on a pole-starred
pine.  Rose horizontal stripes
on snow led wayward ships
to Milky Way, somehow (the bard

might know).  Over the river E
(for equal sign) carry
me back to cosmic liberty,
Eurydice – united we are free;

like Sophie with P. della Francesca fan
loving galactic neighbors
stitch their laborious
light-canoe (twin Manitou of Man).

10.21.17

6.24.2016

like waves of the sea


Occasionally I'm going to disobey my own resolution, and post new poems from Ravenna Diagram.  Happy Midsummer Day...

GREEN PILLARS

Spell me the poem including history
if Providence on earth
blooms, Rhodian... Arthur
ever returning, like waves of the sea –

mesmerized & mesmerizing,
in disguise (as George
the gardener).  So merge,
now, emerge, with enterprising

pioneers of happiness, your
boon companions, in
loon-call theremin
borne toward a Lake Superior

of dreams – one cup of fresh water
lifted to the moon
of manna-honey – one
mute field note in the Chronicle of Mutter-

Patter.  A flimsy paper nautilus
skims her light pinnace
over the sea-surface –
her brood chamber full of caprice,

her Ocean State a colony
of Turtledove Cloud-
World.  A dream-word
sang out of a rooted cedar tree –

so old, Time had forgotten her;
so strong, her smile
threads from green pillars
outlasting the Wars to End All War.

6.24.16 

5.12.2016

Womb in the cave-shade


ALMOND ARK

They were farmers & shepherds in West Branch,
cartwrights & blacksmiths, laboring
through pain... the rusty ring
of iron clamps, the thick stench

of horse manure, the pigs & cows...
yet took their time for quiet
in the Meeting House – let
runaways abide, lambs browse.

Their silence lodged in protest against
violence itself –
the insolence of Guelf
& Ghibelline, the gangs, the hunts...

the iron dream of domination
locking the brain-cave
in its frozen grave
(creak-echo of damnation).

There was a spring in Tuscan hills,
coiled like a rusty serpent –
green with moss, bent
into turtleshell... old Williams’

spiral (out of Coke, Blackstone).
Mules’ rustic rights
& supernatural delights
limp into leaves of a live-oak woman –

her heavy womb in the cave-shade
like a Negus by the Nile
hidden for a while...
almond ark of spring (oak-apple maid).

5.11.16

Quaker Meeting House, Scattergood School, West Branch, Iowa

3.29.2016

Evocative river


ROGER WILLIAMS
                                    Eternity, O Eternity!  That is our business.

Evocative river, measuring
my time.  If I follow
upstream, to the shallow
infant burble of your beginning

– that rush of spring across bright
limestone, agate, flint –
I might catch a glint
of prism-diamond, rainbow sunlight

out of the meteor from whence
we flew.  I studied greatness
as a bookworm boy; was
wowed by those Prince Valiants

& Teddy Heroes who prevail
(magnanimous & brave)
in moldy Grendel-cave
& gory field (at bookshelf scale);

but not until childhood had passed
did someone jump from stone
canoe, whose doings shone
so implicate with goodness (massed

coordinate with commonweal)
as to rekindle in my mind
each uncreated end
within this flow, earthbound & actual –

as in an icon of the central soul.
Heart-pivot of earth-
planet – integral hearth –
blazing spark in a great oak-bole

                       *

of clay spheres darting from the fiery
kiln (original
Joie, ineffable).
Star of perfection (seal of history).

Heroes in graven books (sustained
by hungry scrivener-ravens).
Yet the remotest heaven’s
slope will be surveyed, garnered, gleaned

by unknown compadres (anonymous,
unheralded).  Servants
beyond themselves – tense
strings, bowed into major chords.

Two things of opposite nature seem
to depend on one another...
the bond of troth, of lover
& belov’d.  Roger’s granite door-beam

on the hillside sinks back into dusky
Rhodus billows.  Nigh
the steadfast stream, two shy
ephebes lay out a picnic blanky;

an early butterfly, black-gold,
skims toward the shore. 
You have hearkened to lore
of skalds who came before – old

poets’ conversation, overheard;
now the river moves
in your own heart – Love’s
glittering pulse, encouraging word.

3.29.16

3.28.2016

Delirium tremendum


LOVE’S KEY

The heavy water of Ezra Pound
subsuming the human tale
to his querulous high-pitch creel,
transmuted suddenly into profound

perilous melody.  The charismatic
author, shaken by acidic
lye.  Rattled to quick
bones – John Berryman at sick

bay (delirium tremendum, guy)
shriven to the marrow.
The prof who would harrow
Hell must round up his own high

insolence.  But personality,
like poetry, is excess
on the History Express
a bit gratuitous (to a degree);

won’t fold logically into place
aboard the freight car
of any village explainer.
She’s obstinate.  You’re a disgrace.

Whence cometh all authority?
Thrones crumble, powers
tremble – the hour’s
getting late.  Some mild futurity

yodels an octave through a vise...
the bird’s a turtledove.
Love’s key to the sky-trove –
exalting the low, humbling the wise.

3.28.16

12.09.2015

Defense of a Diagram (4)

An explanatory introduction, an apologia for a literary work, is a double-edged sword.  In the process of unveiling an informal "defense" (or preface) for Ravenna Diagram, the side-notes are inevitably extraneous, maybe counter-productive.  For one thing, the poem has to stand on its own two (3, 4) feet.  For another, the explanations fall short of clarity & cogency.  I'm left with a nagging sense of things unsaid, or ill-said.  To render things explicit seems to muddle them at the same time.

Despite my disclaimers, the problem remains that I am offering, as a ground or argument for the poem, a worldview which perhaps 70% or more of contemporary readers will find puzzling, mystifying, off-putting, deluded, or simply wrong.

Yet there's something worthwhile in setting out on a journey against such long odds.  Intriguing, anyway.

Let me elaborate, then, a little more - a mini-defense within my Defense.  I have suggested (with Pound, Hart Crane, et al.) that the American epic is a "poem containing history".  The historian, of necessity, approaches the chaos or illegibility of human history with some kind of epistemological lens or measuring implement.

My particular lens is a form of theological vision.  (Some personal history laid the groundwork for this stance : I've written about it elsewhere on this blog.)  Previous efforts are part of the same song, in different modes.  The most recent poem, Lanthanum, parallels what I'm doing now, with changes.  In Lanthanum the idea was to find a place within American poetry to juxtapose and reconcile the American with the European, the modern with the medieval, T.S. Eliot with Hart Crane.  That poem circles around the Gateway Arch Monument in St. Louis (at the geographical mid-point of the continent, and Eliot's birthplace) - as a national-poetic symbol analogous to Crane's Brooklyn Bridge.

But what was the motive for juxtaposing modern & medieval?  It's basically the same impulse that motivates Ravenna Diagram : a particular way of seeing, an ontology of the nature of things, a model of human destiny on earth.

Roger Williams, the Rhode Island founder and prophet of religious toleration, is a pivotal figure for me, standing at the border between medieval and modern.  His message is still vital.  It provides a key with which to reconcile the sacred and secular, spirituality and civic liberty, the individual and the social, the one and the many.

The "medieval" mode assents to a spiritual concept, the Christian article of faith that Jesus was the living synthesis of human and divine - God and Man in one person.

The "modern" mode recognizes the limitations of theological vocabulary.  It acknowledges that what we mean by the "historical person Jesus Christ" may not (or not easily) be recognizable or acceptable to others, that the process of understanding one another across diverse human cultures and ideologies and experiences and forms of knowledge is ongoing, and utterly complex.

The task for this poet is to express the crux of this dichotomy or interface.  It is also to make claims and propositions about the nature of things - & celebrate the consequences.

A poem including history from a Christian perspective has its modern precursors (Eliot and David Jones among them).  Jones I find particularly appealing for a certain optimistic tenderness, for which one searches in Eliot mostly in vain.  His message is the "good news" : but it involves of necessity a translation or transfiguration of secular history into a pattern of spiritual meaning.  Christ is the pivot of earthly time - the Good Shepherd who lifts the human soul a little bit out of this world, from time to eternity.

Obviously, the notion of a divine manifestation has repercussions for any theory of history.  This is where poetry brings its special visionary powers of enthusiasm to bear.  We could suggest an analogy between the translation from secular to sacred time with the transmutation of prose to poetry.  "If you are willing to accept it."

But I also see a "poem including history" as having special obligations to that very prosaic reality which underlies the mystic icons of spirituality.  It is by way of a nekuia or the kenosis into the depths of the local, the temporary, the accidental, the mortal, that we discover the terms of shared experience - across religious and cultural differences.  This is the only path to shared understanding, a recognition of the kinship of experience, and the universality of truth.  It is only though this journey into the earth of details that new vision, new perspectives on old realities, is made possible.  The ground of actuality beneath "the historical Jesus" is still being excavated.  Our own, contemporary historical and cultural orientations continually react with newness to the unpredictable discoveries of ancient "artifacts".  The old is made new; is seen in a new light.

Again, I don't want to work at cross-purposes and defeat my own aims.  Ravenna Diagram is more than a "Jesus meditation", as anyone can see who bothers to explore it.  It's epic aspirations involve articulating a specifically American poem; this requires voicing a perspective on our land, people and history which echoes back and boomerangs within this larger, more global sketch (the theological framework).  It would be incumbent on anybody writing such a poem to attempt no less, if she wants to be heard, or say something of value to an American audience.  Thus the American literary background is part of the design of Ravenna D.  I am writing within the thematic and modal context of Eliot, Crane, Olson, Pound, and many others, who have traveled these regions before.

& herewith (I hope & believe) concludes my fourfold, flat-footed Defense of a Diagram.

Roger Williams at Prospect Terrace (Providence)

12.05.2008

Joseph Harrington has been running an interesting monologue for several days on poetry and history... & I've been adding my 2 cents...

8.22.2008

Having sort of a small-scale re-encounter with E. Pound & Cantos. Very mixed feelings. EP had big influence on me in early 80s : the scale, the ambition, the attempt to integrate history with a (secret, arcane) history of poetry, with world culture... On the other hand, Montale called him a "barbarian", which was also true... Bacigalupo calls him a "primitive".

The story & para-story (the life, the poem) is stranger than fiction. Much of it just plain mean & hateful : the trajectory of the fanatic ideologue. But then there's his wonderful capacious curiosity & energy... the play with many languages & cultures...

My underlying impulse in writing with him in the background has been to revise, to re-write "historical", "epic" poetry so as to oppose his influence, to "right the ship"... some things in Pound are just a bad cloud over historical memory... & (in this moment of renascent authoritarianism) still dangerous (the amalgam of anti-semitism, fascism, the scorn for democracy, and Confucianism, for example)... there are things in Stubborn Grew, for example, which are a kind of shady parody-mockery of the Cantos, which I admire & dislike in equal measure...

Basically I am disappointed by his haughty arrogance (which he himself acknowledged in glimpses... say in the Pisan Cantos) and his kow-towing to "enlightened" despotism (Mussolini, Hitler, and all those wonderful "rulers")... and secondly - attracted as I am to some of the same philosophical lenses (Dante, some aspects of Neo-Platonism & medieval thought) - I see a very different actuality in the "tale" of world history, & I want to express that alternate view...

Something odd happened during the recent weeks of this re-reading... we have a sort of white & orange cat named Chester; recently we started taking care of a little scrawny feral stray cat, with a sharp face and green eyes, who has become a very affectionate pal to Chester... my wife started calling her "Esmerelda". When we finally caught her & were able to take her to the vet for shots etc., we discovered, lo & behold, Esmerelda was a he... so now Esmerelda is Ezra... (Pound was famously intrigued with the local stray cat population of whatever European city he happened to be wandering through... & the feline element in the Cantos is of course pervasive...). EP was enthralled with Ovid & Metamorphoses... maybe Ezra is Ezra! (But Ezra will never take the place of our beloved Pushkin, who like his namesake died young, & is buried in the backyard...)

Pushkin, that Russian cat

6.13.2007

I think of Wallace Stevens as pondering along some such path as this...

The mind is creative, the imagination is primordial, originary - since experience is unavoidably subjective : the world we know is the world as we see and experience it.

Thus the vivid, bracing, inventive, concrete perception of poetry offers reality made new - re-shaped anew (or, reality in a new light). Thus the "supreme fiction" displaces the worn-out myths which have congealed into doctrinal belief.

Poetry in this sense is representative of art & artist generally. Which are, in turn, representative of free creative conscious perception generally.

This is very basically the "standard model" of the Artist, since Emerson, the Romantics, etc. And I accept it, I agree with it, for what it's worth : a working credo for the nourishing of creative talents & aims. But it ain't the whole story.

Interesting juxtaposed reading these days : Pope Benedict on St. Bonaventure (Theology of History of St. Bonaventure) on the one hand; a critical study of Finnegans Wake on the other (Joyce, Dante and the poetics of literary relations, by Lucia Boldrini).

I have the feeling Bonaventure would have found FW out of court (even though Joyce is so deeply fascinated with both Christianity and the notion of creative world-making).

Joyce is awfully deep & subtle, but he seems to shape the book in a sort of circular, "Buddhist" (or Hindu) framework : life circles around & around like a river forever & ever. For Bonaventure, the assertion of "the eternity of the world" was one of the primal marks of Aristotle's pagan error. For Bonaventure, the world is a creation, and history has a singular plot (even if B's version of that history has a certain circular quality about it : history is the story of the world being sent forth from God, pivoting on Christ, and returning to God).

I've got my own inklings about this, which I won't go into now...

But getting back to the "Stevens" bit above... I feel more & more on kind of a Nicholas of Cusa/Byzantine tack, with the central notion of the human/divine imago... that is, there are human creators (with maximum freedom) & yet there is also Creation - these 2 perplexibly & unaccountably meshed (like 2 circles) together... & there is the Event at the center...

Christianity : revelation (the event) trumps reason.

Poetry : the actual (drama) trumps abstraction (discourse).

There's a kind of parallel or analogy there... (worked out in History...)

5.24.2007

Here is a cluster of Index labels under the subject : history (label : subject/history).

I haven't linked to every term in the numerical series for some of these labels (i.e. criticism2, criticism3...), but only to the initial term (i.e. criticism). (See Index for more on this.)


There are many others...

3.14.2006

Anybody out there heard of the theologian Urs von Balthasar? I've stumbled on his voluminous writings in my peregrinations through the stacks. He approaches religion & history through the fundamental category of drama.

All the world's a you-know-what. Yeatsian, too.

Dante et al. as historians. & history as a form of (cosmic) theater.

How are poets historians? By way of the tensions of history which pervade their work. The fascination with events & politics. The confidence & ambition to formulate a poetic image of same. The sense of moral complicity & responsibility. The authority of articulate thought.

9.17.2005

Jane Dark has a very structured & programmatic way of addressing questions (in which one of my comments on the politics of poetics gets described as "absurd"). I can't say I've thought things through as systematically, but off the top of my head, responding:

in the outline she draws here of history & poetry, and Marxist criticism, she is careful not to predetermine any commitments that might be (falsely) assumed to follow from a Marxist-critical starting point. Nevertheless, she is at the same time careful to posit the basic underpinnings of the approach : 1) "history" determines the meaning of particulars (events) : ie. history is the primary & adequate frame of reference for interpretation; 2) consciousness is determined by social forces which also "make" history (consciously or not); and 3) if we identify "emergent poetics", we are bringing to awareness the mode of poetics which is aligned or at least recognizes the forces of changing contemporary history, as opposed to "residual" or backward-looking or traditionalist poetics.

The underlying assumption here is that history itself is determined by economics (ie. class struggle) : what we call the frame of history is colored by the struggle for economic dominion (ie. control of resources & means of production).

The absurd point(s) I was trying to make, and would like to reiterate, is that it seems to me that, first of all, history itself is producing a narrative which contradicts Marx in many respects; for example, the struggle between labor & capital does not seem to shape & define social relations & power structures in the determinist manner which Marx predicted. Social relations, social power, & social development are defined by communities which are not simply determined, in turn, solely by their status as bourgeoisie or working class. What this means is, that even if we choose "history" as the ultimate interpretive frame, history itself is not necessarily defined accurately in Marxist terms.

Secondly, it seems to follow from this that if we are imposing a false (let's say, "materialist") notion of historical causality, we will come up with a skewed image of literature. Rather than assent to a particular theory of history, which then colors our view of literary phenomena, I would argue that "history" is a human work-in-progress - an unresolved, intellectually improvisatory phenomenon, resulting from the interrelation of the workings of time & nature (a reality outside total human control) with human consciousness. We make & write history - and these activities change as new knowledge is gained (& in some cases old knowledge lost). In other words, we have no complete & authoritative version of either history or history-making which we can simply apply to our theory of literature or poetics.

& if this is the case, then it seems irrational to apply a theory of history - since it will be either false or incomplete - as a means toward the "explanation" of literature. It's a case of overburdening criticism with unexplained or unexplainable or inapplicable levels of abstraction.

Criticism & poetics is in the position of devising its own interpretive frameworks. As long as these are laid out clearly, the reader is enabled to recognize the assumptions & assertions undergirding these interpretations. The reader may or may not agree with the provisional outline of history or literature which the critic supplies; but the reader will be in a position to evaluate not only the preliminary assumptions, but their applications as part of the critic's (or the artist's) whole method & approach to specific works of art.

Thirdly, & finally, I would question the simple application of the category of history to the category literature. In a fundamental way, art interprets reality - shows it back to us - by means & methods, and with goals, which rival, & differ from, those used in the narrative/interpretive activity we call history.

6.24.2005

Notes Toward & So On (9)

If, then, we follow the logic of the Addendum below... poetry includes realia - symbolic facts, factual symbols - with something of a different purpose than does history.

History recounts the truths of what happened on behalf of knowledge & its truth.

Poetry transmits its truths so that it may suffuse them with feeling. Emotional truth.

Oh-oh. This sounds like another pitfall. There were lots of intellectual propounders of the last 2 centuries who were eager to limit poetry to "feeling" (while serious grown-up minds focused on the "thought" of reality - scientific, political, social, etc).

Which brings us full circle, back to the substance of the poetic image - that fusion of intellect and feeling, head & heart - that sense of things, around and about the borders of which Coleridge, Blake, Dickinson, Whitman, Hopkins, Eliot, Stevens & so many others wrote with such authority, with the ring of emotional rightness.

addendum #2: & this still doesn't get it right. Because art also presents symbolic facts as a form of mimesis - perhaps at least as accurate, exact & true, in its way, as any other form of discourse.