If Only We Couldn't Understand Them
How Contemporary American Poets Are Denaturing the Poem,
I think accessible just means that the reader can walk into the poem without difficulty. The poem is not, as someone put it, deflective of entry.1
Because many contemporary poets have chosen the way of the mythical trickster, taking the reader through gulleys and gorges thick with word-midge and image-mist (Over here! No, over here!) or into briar patches where the overlapping branches prickle with meaning just out of reach—and leaving us there—or tempting us with an apparent meaning of the poem, only to find that like touching a tar baby we are forever stuck onto it, our subsequent efforts to struggle free only making us more stuck; we are grateful, at least at first, for the Billy Collins poem. Enter here. Enjoy the visit. Exit there.
Often people, when they're confronted with a poem, it's like someone who keeps saying "what is the meaning of this? What is the meaning of this?" And that dulls us to the other pleasures poetry offers.
2
The other pleasures: all those pleasures aside from the one of discovering meaning in a poem. What are those other pleasures? Presumably, these are the elements of a poem—its imagery, metaphor, music, structure and so on. There’s wordplay. Syntactical twists. Line breaks. Humor, perhaps. A storyline (but not one with a point—then it’s fiction). Paradoxically, without the net, however fine, of meaning, to hold these elements together, to give them a shape and a raison d’etre, the poem is much less accessible. Gertrude Stein, for example, meets all the critera for “other pleasures” perfectly. So does much of John Ashbery. Without the hovering spirit of the author’s shaping intellect and intentionality we are back in the briar patch. Enter anywhere. Wander around helplessly. Exit nowhere.
On the other hand, the Billy Collins poem, though distinguished by its humor (an unusual, and welcome, attribute of contemporary poetry), is also a Mary Oliver poem, a Rita Dove poem, a David Lehman poem, and a Maya Angelou poem, among many other contemporary poets, because it is a poem we can understand. Immediately. We feel no drive to delve. It is not a poem we need to analyze. There are no pesky layers of meaning. What you see is what you get.
But the real question is what happens to the reader once he or she gets inside the poem.
3
Mules of Love, a newly released book of poetry by Ellen Bass, is a book chock full of accessible poems. It is also a book lauded by, among other luminaries, Billy Collins:
The sudden intimacy of these poems of Ellen Bass will hold you to the page. She knows an awful lot and is ready to tell it all. her poems will quicken the pulse, and as you read you will become anxious to discover more and more, but she can only tell you so much, one good line at time, and that is more than enough.4
“..and that is more than enough.” An ambiguous phrase, but one that points to Collins’ previous statements about being satisfied with the “other pleasures” of a poem. If we suspend our need to find meaning, perhaps we will experience the “quickened pulse” the anxiety to “discover more and more” of what Collins found in Ms. Bass’ book. For example, in the poem whose last line is used as the title of the book:
When they laid you in the crook
They pulled you from me like a cork
You dug me out like a well. You lit
I was sure that kind of love would be
Massive the burden this flesh
What’s the first word that pops into your mind when I say “spring”? Green! “adored?” Passion! Very good.
Is it too much to ask that the speaker be dug out like something other than a “well”?
That she have a heart with something other than “deadwood” in it to be “lit”?
That she describe her love without using the words “earth” or “stars”?
Another original simile.
“One good line at a time,” Collins says. But if this be pleasure, in what does torture lie? Not only is the signature line in this poem racked with unintentional grammatical possibilities and irrelevancy of comparison (you have to wonder who selected it as the book’s title), but the poem itself is full of amateurish gestures: overwriting, mixed metaphor, and trite language. In fact, it sounds the same kind of alarm Ms. Bass' writing sounds in her non-fiction bestseller, The Courage to Heal, a stew of pop-psych cliches served up as original thinking with a big dollop of illogical thinking on the side. Fortunately, the sloppy thinking she exhibits in a poem will not destroy people's lives through fraudulent, uncontrolled therapy the way The Courage to Heal did. It will only cause uncontrolled yawning.
But—we can understand it. The problem is we don’t want to. At least not so soon, not so easily, not without some kind of journey, some kind of new insight, something. Anything. We want more than gas and a handful of bromides for our trouble.
Ellen Bass writes of ordinary life with a fierce and loving passion. Her honesty, her insights, and her mastery of language, particularly metaphor, make this book compelling reading.
5
Tempted by another goldplated blurb, we try again:
Tulip trees hang over the Kalihiwai River,
In some ways, such writing is worse than that which obfuscates and fancy-dances in order to create a dazzling surface, a distraction from its basic emptiness of content or intellect. The (too-obvious) meaning in a Bass poem cannot compensate for the lack of a dazzling surface.
Of some reveller reeving through
Pink promises fell like posies cranked robotic
to grant and grovel for
It may well be that the less meaning there is in the poem, the noisier it gets. Many Dylan Thomas poems prove this principle. A poem without meaning is fine—as long as the poem does something with itself other than hanging around looking vacuous. However, while the pleasure of language itself is better then diving into a poem and coming up with cliches, can’t we expect poetry to give us both pleasure and meaning? This is the real difficulty, the challenge of poetry. Despite decades of talk therapy, even psychiatry has discovered that:
Despite the best efforts of poets, emotions are largely beyond words.
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In fact, it seems that the more difficult it is to express an emotional truth, or meaning if you will, the clearer, more accessible, more accurate, the language needs to be.
Franz Wright embodies this equation perfectly. The language of his poetry, never “tricky” or “dazzling” is in the service of a difficult quest for emotional truth and therefore needs to be absolutely clear, never distracting:
And not to feel bad about dying.
it is only
to exclude death from our thoughts
as the horror of being excluded— …
coming in off Lake Erie
appearing out of nowhere
Here, a plain-spoken narrator, in simple declarative sentences, makes an exact correlation between the articulated fear of death and its inarticulate power as reflected in the landscape. The brilliant hinge stanza, stanza four, leads us from a philosophical, “talking” meditation on death to a non-verbal fear of it, the words “something like that..” casual in their expression of futility lead us to death’s embodiment in natural imagery.
A brilliant and original language in the service of difficult emotional truth, by defintition, renders the concept of accessibility null and void. For example, Dylan Thomas’ handful of great poems exhibit meaning and all the other pleasures at once. This is also true of Hopkins and Stevens. Sylvia Plath exemplifies the combination in most of her poems. In fact, it is this combination—original language in the service of difficult meaning— that is essential for greatness in poetry.
Contrary to Collins’ remarks then, it may be that the other pleasures of poetry arise from difficulty itself. If a poem is to be more than entertainment, if, in fact, it is to be great, then it must express difficult truth, both originally and clearly. The challenge for a poet is to put those other pleasures in the service of meaning.
Copyright © 2002, Joan Houlihan
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