Most readers responded positively to my essay, “Pure and Impure”—others saw it merely as a defense of “genius” rhyming, with the added caveat that “genius” instinctively understands that there are subjects inherently non-poetic, and to be avoided, since no poetry can be made from these things (porn, trauma, etc).
I offended two types of poets, even as most poets, who fit no type, understood exactly what I was saying.
After all, I gave concrete examples: Grandma’s Cancer, the David Letterman Show, and RP Warren’s important essay of the same name, who none read—I think it is because po-biz has lost all philosophy over the past 50 years and consider 20th century poets major, and who should have 60 foot statues, who are merely cute (we still, thank God, do not worship what provokes disgust). There hasn’t been a major poet in America since Frost—and he was born 3/4 into the 19th century. (Think about that for a moment.)
The two types of poets I offended?
First, the type of Impure poet who is “all in” when it comes to impurity and who considers rhyme a very minor thing, best left to limericks. This Impure type sees “Pure” as code for the sacred and the privileged, and is having none of it. They are nobly democratic, are good and decent people in the main, and want no duality at all, such as Pure and Impure, to stand between them and their Muse. OK, fine, I get it.
The second type is the poet who does appreciate rhyme and is all for Purity, and believes whatever he rhymes he elevates either into the greatest joke of all time or to sublime heights—there is nothing impure which he, the poet, tackles. This second type of poet looks down on the first type of impure poet as common and trivial, but this second type is equally offended by my essay because he feels it seeks to place limits on him, the cleverest poet to have ever breathed.
Before I go further, the following three texts are paramount:
Robert Penn Warren’s essay, “Pure and Impure Poetry” and these two essays by Edgar Poe:
“The Poetic Principle,” in which Poe merely looks at poems he likes, including “The Indian Serenade” by Shelley, an obscure poem apparently made famous by Poe’s 19th century essay, since Warren speaks of it (and mocks it) as a famous poem in his 20th century essay (fame and poetry were once friends).
“The Philosophy of Composition,” in which Poe tells the tale of how he composed “The Raven.” (How he composed his poem—for both popular and critical tastes. This is the key.)
One of the readers of my essay and I had a small back and forth (the glory of FB is communicating poetry: censors take note: this might be dangerous) in which I sought to cool his feverish brow by pointing out to him that “The Raven” (Purity) was original (originality is where the pure emerges from the impure) and “The Red Wheelbarrow” was not (the Americans who were proud “Imagistes” were only ripping off haiku). My reader (who is also a poet) responded in a fury:
“Regarding your secondary comment, you seem to be saying that what marks the genius from the non-genius is originality. You say that The Red Wheelbarrow is “repeating haiku” and that nothing like The Raven can be found in history. The Red Wheelbarrow seemed original and fresh in its time and place, and while they called it “imagist” it certainly seems haiku-ish. What was relatively original was how he put it together, simple as it was. But The Raven uses borrowed meter and rhyme scheme and an image of foreboding as old and stale (even in his time) as a black cat. Again, what was relatively original was how he put it all together. I appreciate the music and the skill involved in writing it, but it is tediously long-winded and heavy-handed in its obvious psychological suggestion, and I am sure there are scholars who could write entire books on the influences and predecessors that let up to it.”
There are several things to notice in this gentleman’s remarks.
Robert Penn Warren, one of the authors of Understanding Poetry, the most influential poetry textbook of the 20th century, praises “The Red Wheel Barrow” in the following manner:
“…whatever its content…it makes a special claim on our attention by the mere fact of being set off; the words demand to be looked at freshly. And the whole composition makes, we may say, an important negative claim—the claim of not being prose.”
Observe, first, the common description of Williams’ miserable, kindergarten, red crayon, pretentious, poem as “fresh”—influence is a mysterious thing; Understanding Poetry is more influential than we know. The Pure is what we seek but it is never what the Cult of the Impure finds. Many refuse to believe that Pound and Williams launched their Imagist careers on a theft of haiku—in the very face of its self-evident truth, or that this theft was aided and abetted by Understanding Poetry—but it was.
Remember, the Pure, to be pure, must be original. Haiku, the form, seeks to use fresh imagery alone as its focus; America was mesmerized by a single poetry textbook which convinced us that Pound’s petals and Williams’ barrow were fresh (new, original)—when they were not. Haiku was conflated with Pound and Williams; the “fresh” boys were on their way. What really mattered (besides the “freshness”) was the license given; the illusion was now that any nice person writing out an image or two could be an original (fresh) poet: here was the whole significance of the delusion—which the impure poet clings to for his very sanity and life.
The New Critics were simply smarter than most poets, which helped to make the hallucination they created irresistible. “…the claim of not being prose.” This is the secret attraction of avant poetry, which the chapter on “The Red Wheelbarrow” cast upon GI Bill students during the 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s as a spell. A zombie army was created. Genius fell down dead.
“The Raven” is original, and genius is defined by it. To say it “uses borrowed meter and rhyme scheme” is like scoffing at the Royal Navy for using borrowed materials; the originality of “The Raven” is the very definition of genius going further in its borrowing to effect something really new. As Poe pointed out, originality in its purest sense belongs to God alone—mortals combine; they do not create. Genius is merely hard work. The Pure is the result of working really hard in, and with, the impure. Glory to the con artist who wins the day with the Red Wheelbarrow. The impure transformed into the pure by magic is a rebuke to all human activity: the result is the Lotus Eaters helpless on the beach.
Excuse me, I have work to do…