I am reading Matthew Zapruder’s excellent Why Poetry, and particularly, his very useful meditation on learning to read Ashbery (a skill I have not yet acquired…). In this meditation he speaks about imagination and its power. He quotes Wallace Stevens’s 1941 lecture “The Noble Rider and the Sound of Words”: “What is [the poet’s] function? Certainly it is not to lead people out of the confusion in which they find themselves, Nor is it…to comfort them. I think that his function is to make his imagination theirs…[be] the light in the minds of others…to help people to live their lives.” As Zapruder puts it, “..[N]ot an escape from the world around us, but a different sort of engagement.”
This made me think of my recent lurking discomfort. Although completely understandable in the face of the grimness of life in the world right now, the current poetry I’m writing and what I’m reading/hearing/seeing seems to suffer from an excess of earnestness. I am also hearing a voice in today’s poems that cries over and over “I am Other,” “I am Other.” The personal seems to be only or primarily political, rather than essentially human, as complex, contradictory, and infuriating that state is. I read (and write ) and I listen but find myself in the end hungry. What do I want for sustenance if not this? Is it humor? Whimsy? Distraction?
A different sort of engagement. Yes.
There is cleverness in abundance in the poems I’m encountering, certainly, and wordcraft and wordplay. But am I seeking the imaginative? Something that takes me away from the headlines? I’m not necessarily seeking to be comforted — there is nothing comfortable about the rough beast slouching toward Bethelehem or the boy falling from the sky as the executioner’s horse scratches its behind on a tree. And those are poems that do feed me. Headlines change. But what does not change, it seems, are the essential dilemmas of being a human being in the world, bumping up against each other and the earth and the cosmos. I think about Dickinson’s slanted telling. I want more of that.
Marcel Proust, in commenting on the early 20th century poetry of Anna de Noailles, talked about work that came from “the profound self that individualizes works and makes them last.” I’m not sure that these works written so quickly in response to the day’s atrocities are given even half enough time and consideration to reflect that “profound self,” the individual experience so deeply considered that it becomes universal.
Zapruder again: “When Stevens writes that the role of the poet is to help people live their lives, it sounds very grandiose. But really what he means is that the role of the poet as he perceives it is to deepen experience, to write poems that we can use to protect ourselves in some small way against the constant encroachment of ‘the pressure of the real,’ …The original Surrealists of the 1930s in France had a similar, utopian, impossible desire for poetry, that it would reconnect our daily existence with the world of imagination and dreams that modern life has split from us, leaving us in constant deadening pain.”
I don’t know that I entirely agree, but I think he’s getting at something I’m missing right now in my work and so much of what I’m seeing just now. Big big vision. Deep consideration. Grand imagining. And, yes, maybe a little whimsy.