Sunday, July 30, 2006

Unless you're a genius...

Unless you’re a genius...

This was the narrative when I was a teenager. Unless you’re a genius, it won’t be easy.

Pray that you aren’t a genius.

JS Bach.

JS Bach was one of the greatest musical composers who ever lived. His mastery could not be overstated. And yet, Bach was the very last choice among all the applicants for the post of Cantor at Leipzig’s Thomaskirche. He was chosen only after such a luminary as Johann Christoph Graupner could not be had. Some critics even went so far as to call him nothing more than an organ grinder. After his death, his wife died in poverty. A third of his cantatas, legend has it, were sold as fish-wrap. Meanwhile, the genteel mediocrity of younger composers like Johann Adolph Hasse were met with wide approval and stunning popularity.

Mozart.

Mozart was possibly one of the most consistently underemployed composers of the 18th century. Despite entertaining the Aristocracy as a child, that same Aristocracy flatly turned their backs on him when he was later in need of employment. Marie Antoinette, of beheading fame, personally sunk one of Mozart’s opportunities for employment calling him (and his father) little more than common beggars. Little good being a genius did Mozart... He died in debt and impoverished at the age of 36. Meanwhile, Salieri, the very poster child of mediocrity, lived to a successful old age. Salieri’s pupils included Beethoven and Schubert.

Beethoven.

Beethoven’s music was “blamed” on his deafness. Meanwhile, Ignaz Pleyel, a tunefully mediocre composer had become one of the most famous composers in Europe. Pleyel’s music is the only music of a classical composer who, contemporaneously, was played in America. He outlived Beethoven and died a rich man. Beethoven died in poverty.

Schubert

Schubert achieved some very limited success in his songs (none of the great publishing houses ever rewarded him with more than a pittance) , while the rest of his output was met with a kind of benign pity. Schubert, already a very shy man, frequently shelved his compositions with the slightest disapproval. He was never able to find employment and was forced to rely on friends and acquaintances. He died at the age of 31.

Shakespeare

Shakespeare’s initial reception was a hostile one. Robert Greene, an older contemporary & dramatist, considered Shakespeare to be an “upstart crowe”, an over ambitious actor (an insult) and a plagiarist. Greene later apologized, it seems. Although Shakespeare did well, he was not substantially more successful than some of his peers – like Thomas Heywood. In his own day he was considered, by many, to be a lesser dramatist than his friend and contemporary Ben Jonson. After the Restoration, it was Jonson’s plays which were to shape English drama, not Shakespeare’s. Beaumont and Fletcher’s collaborations were also considered to be superior to Shakespeare. If not for the effort of Shakespeare’s fellow actors, who published the first folio shortly after his death, many of Shakespeare’s works might have been lost (like Cardenio) or at least badly garbled (many Restoration dramatists ruthlessly altered and adapted his plays). The recognition of Shakespeare’s genius, like Bach’s, came nearly a century after his death.

Keats

His first book, containing poetry no worse than most of his contemporaries, was critically savaged. It was later said that Keats' early death was hastened by the even nastier reception of his last (and great) poems. Although his death was not caused by the critique, the fact that the legend exists says something for the level of antipathy aimed at the poet. He died at the age of 25.

Robert Frost

Our last example has a happy ending. The start of Frost’s career was anything but auspicious. In fact, the first half of Frost’s life was spent in complete obscurity. He was forty years old before his first poems were recognized, and not in his own country. It was after he had moved to England that his first book was published (with the help of Ezra Pound). Prior to his year in England editors, who would later compete to publish his poetry, soundly rejected him. In fact, some editors would later choose to publish the very same poems they had earlier rejected (much to Frost’s satisfaction). Frost’s greatest asset was a long life. If you are going to be a genius, and successful, live a long life.


Among the composers, only Bach was moderately good at self-promotion. Shakespeare was an astute man, knowing (perhaps more so than any other artist who has ever lived) that discretion is the better part of valor. If history is to be the judge, it teaches one that success in any given art (or any livelihood really) is not so much a matter of talent but of self promotion. Even the most mediocre, if he or she knows how to ingratiate his or herself to the tune of the times, will be more apt to live a long and successful life.

If you want to be successful, let your genius be self-promotion.

If you want to be a great artist, rest assured that you will be loved once you’re dead.

Best of all, be blessed with both talents.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Ulysses in Burlington, Vermont

Here is a poem I wrote a while back. It's one of my favorite poems. However, nobody else likes it. I have submitted it to several publications and none of them show any interest. In one case, the poem was met with outright hostility. So, either the editors are stunningly poor judges of poetry, or I am.

I am always amazed at how some artists can't recognize their own mediocrity. Alfred Austen (the poet laureate of England after Tennyson's death) being a prime example (The Joy of Bad Verse by Nicholas T. Parsons). Here was a man whose breathtaking mediocrity was only rivaled by his sense of genius. Maybe I fall into that category. You be the judge.

Anyway, one of the reasons I like the poem so much is because it was fun to write. I took Tennyson's Ulysses and tried to "modernize" it. At the same time, I closely followed his grammatical style and used much of his vocabulary. This gives the poem the odd feeling of being in two worlds at once, I know. I came up with the idea a while back when I read that student Edward Elgar (an English late-romantic composer), came up with the idea of re-writing Mozart's (40th or 41rst?) symphony while using all the same note "values". In other words, he changed the melody but kept everything else the same. I wanted to know how that would work in poetry.

It's a pastiche. In the musical sense, this means that we take an old song and put new words in it, giving it a new meaning. For my part, I tried to turn the whole thing upside down.




It little profits that–a girl stopped
By traffic lights in Burlington, Vermont,
Skateboard idle at the curb–I dole
My laws to boys that leer and know not me.
I cannot rest for riding every day
Downhill to Lake Champlain. I have enjoyed
The streets alone, with friends, at times with strangers
But always with an equal love–in sun
And summer or when winter topples snow
From the Adirondacks’ slopes and seals
The roaming lake. I’ve made myself a name
By daily boarding past the populous fronts
Of Church Street. I’ve come to know the people:
Its jugglers, pipers, lovers and its children
As I myself am known by them and am
Become a part of them. Who haven’t I told,
And freely–that experience lessens me
That makes me more; that having had, the heart
Desires more and still forever more
The world that never can be fully traveled,
Whose end is my own ending. Bring to me
Days piled on days. Bring me roads, my board,
Unburnished life. So have I told my lovers
And held them to my breasts to hear my breath,
My ringing blood–there is no hour saved;
Drink now and fully, here where falling’s scraped
My skin, here where the wind has chaffed, drink here,
My lips. So have I stood atop the hill
To see the sunsets and all the city spread
Beneath me to the lake and said to those
Who with me readied for the day’s last free-fall
Down through the arc-lit streets: here is my knowledge,
My utmost–life as in love. Let us go
And meet the glittering boundary of the dark water.
This is my mother, whom I love; the room
I left behind (she keeps the knick-knacks–stones
And seashells I discarded); this her house
Round it the wildflowers she’s subdued,
Finding in them their usefulness and good
(Her work now that I’m gone)–and I’m amazed
By her no less than she by me. She’s said:
‘By what we do we love or fail in love;
‘In life our work’s no different–yours and mine.’
There lies the avenue, the broad downhill
To Union Station, there before the shoreline–
The traffic veers. For me alone to go
Or stay, and there’s a joy in having to
Myself the choice–not asking what comes next;
Life’s for the taking. You and I are young,
Our coiled bodies ready to be sprung,
Our corded backs and shoulders to be stretched
(What is torn will mend). Let our mistakes
Be ours, and our successes; what we are
Be boundaryless. The early morning sun
Is furrowed in the climbing waves, and tops
The further mountains. Come, the day awaits us–
The city wakens–what new byways, who
We’ll meet, what friends or strangers, what new lovers,
Ours to discover; if this day’s the last
Then nothing to regret, if not, what change
Another will have wrought on us may touch
Us with a wonder greater than we dreamt of.
Perhaps we each will have a child someday,
Perhaps she’ll say: ‘I want a skateboard just
‘Like yours. I want to be like you.’ Then I’ll say:
We are the lives that we create. This is
The lake, and this our earth and heaven; my love
Abide in you and yours in all you do.
Live to the last day and let the poets say:
‘To be like her!–in Burlington, Vermont.’

Ulysses in Burlington, Vermont
February 3, 2000

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Blurb Wars

Match the poets to their blurbs. If you can do it, and if I were rich... but I'm not and there will be no prizes. (Hint: Some poets have more than one blurb...)

Notice how the blurbers always say "...one of...". As if to say: "Well... he or she really isn't that great" or "I'm just going to write 'one of' because I don't really know if they're all that good..." or "Good God, they're *all* geniuses..."

If you have more, add them to the list...



A.) Timothy Steele
B.) T.S. Eliot
C.) Robert Frost
D.) Thoma Lux
E.) John Ashbery
F.) Elizabeth Bishop
G.) Galway Kinnell
H.) Mary Oliver
I.) Seamus Heaney
J.) Dana Gioia
K.) E.E. Cummings




...one of the finest poets of this century...

...one of America's finest poets...

... one of the poets on whom the future of the genre depends...

...his generation's most gifted and eloquent poets...

...among our finest poets, and still growing...

...the poems stay in the mind, which is the one essential feature of major poetry...

...one of the most distinquished poets of our century...

...recognized and cherished as American's favorite poet...

...a poet of the rarest ability, the kind who comes once or twice a generation...

...one of the finest poets this country has produced in this century...

...one of the greatest lyric poets of all time...

...internationally known poet...

...rises to the occasion of all great poetry...

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

The Poetry of A.E. Stallings

The Poetry of A.E. Stallings

A.E. Stallings recently published HAPAX, her latest book and published in 2006.

Among contemporaries, Stallings makes for some of the most enjoyable reading. Her skill with language and form is foremost. Too few contemporary poets stick out their necks like Stallings, preferring the ease of free verse.

Stallings poetry is clever and that can be taken in its complimentary or pejorative way. Her poems can be compared to Wilbur's and especially to Edna Saint Vincent Millay; in certain respects, Dorothy Parker. They are cogent, masterfully fitting theme to form. When Stallings is off, though, she only writes prettily. Her language feels studied and affected; and she can’t help remind readers of the Victorian poets in the thrall of Greek myth. Most of all, few of her poems exceed the sum of their parts. One wonders if there are not more profound or deeper emotional experiences she is not sharing or if the formality of her poetry is a kind of barrier. The risk in formal poetry is in letting the formality become the matter of the poem, intentionally or otherwise.

First, consider the poem "An ancient Dog Grave, Unearthed During the Construction of the Athens Metro." It begins:

"It is not the curled up bones, nor even the grave
"That stops me, but the blue beads on the collar..."

The first facet of Stallings' writing is her easy and regrettable use of linguistic archaisms like "nor". "Nor" just isn't used in common parlance and I wonder why she felt compelled to use it except for the sound or that she likes archaic, literary sound of it. She could have written:

It is not the curled up bones, not even the grave...

Her usage is especially odd in a free verse poem. (One could not successfully argue that this poem is blank verse.) Formalist poets frequently resort to literary archaisms because they're needed for metrical padding but they are a form of laziness.

Stallings imagines the dog's wandering after death, making its way to the river Styx and crossing it. The poem is sensitive and touchingly asks why the owner put the collar on the dog. "A careful master/ Even now protects a favorite, just so./ But what evil could she suffer after death?" Stallings never ventures an answer. Instead, she's emersed in the underworld walk of the dog that may or may not have something to do with the collar. The poem closes with a kind of cleverness.

A shake as she scrambles ashore sets the beads jingling.
And then, that last, tense moment--touching noses
Once, twice, three times, with unleashed Cerebus.

Is this the evil the dog might suffer? Was Stallings' question only a rhetorical one? Touching as the poem may be, one wonders why anyone would read it to a friend. There is no psychological insight. The symbolism does not reach outside the poem. It does not offer anything beyond its own bemusement. It is one of those poems whose 'whole' fails to exceed the sum of its parts, charming and clever though it is. It sits like a still-life, justified by its own beauty. And for some readers this may be enough.

Consider the poem "Noir". The reader is met with the following lines:

"Late at night,
"One of us sometimes has said,
"Watching a movie in black and white,
"Of the vivid figures quick upon the screen..."

Once again that word, which only belongs in fairy tales -- upon -- makes its appearance. It is the bane of formal poets. There is no reason for Stallings to use it except for iambic appeal. There is also the matter of the archaic diction. There is no reason for the grammatical inversion of "figures quick" (rather than "quick figures") except to preserve the iambic patter. It is a form of laziness. Another example appears in the line "...lisping in tones antique..." One might argue that this "anitique" diction is intended and a kind of joke except that it is a pattern that appears in other poems.

One of my favorite poems is the modest "Lullaby near the Railroad Tracks". Almost every line offers up what's best in Stallings, an elegance of language that rivals Richard Wilbur.

"A freight train between stations
"Shook you out of sleep with all
"Its lonely ululations."

One couldn't ask for a more effortless and prefect verse than this. The rhyme of station and ululation, two contrasting words, is inevitable and natural, perfectly suggesting the child or baby's own crying. The final lines close with a lovely image:

"Here comes the freight train nosing west,
"Pulling the dawn behind her."

This is Stallings at her best. Even if it does not carry the psychological complexity of a Frost poem she is a poet's poet when she writes like this. There are no archaisms. She skillfully weaves rhyme and verse with meaning, such that the building of the poem appears inevitable. The formal poet is at his or her best when the formal structure of the poem isn't noticed.

"Aftershocks", a Spencerian Sonnet and justifiably the first poem of the book, also holds out Stalling at her best, while "Bad News Blues" plays on Stallings' sly, sardonic humor.

Overall, there is the impression that either there are very old and new poems mixed together, or Stallings is of a split person when she writes. Among the most individual and compelling poems are "Aftershocks", "Bad News Blue", "Lullaby near the Railroad Tracks", "Alice, Grown-up, at the Cocktail Party" while other poems like "Acteon", "Empty Icon Frame", "Mint" and "The Modern Greek for 'Nightmare'..." or "Noir" are too clever, frequently archaic in diction and contrived in their rhyming.

But she is among my favorite poets.

She fully takes to the various arts unique to poetry -- rhyme, meter, metaphor, simile, verse structure. She is a rarity. I'll be buying her next book as soon as it comes out.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Poem: All my Telling

Already now too late to sleep,
the darkness that I cannot keep

from coming in the house comes in
as much as asking me again
and then again where I have been

wanting to see what I’ve become,
to know before I’m breathless, dumb

and in me is as what is out.
Tell me, tell me what you are!–
but all my telling ends in doubt;

I know no answer worth the giving,
none, but to answer life by living.

Here, look here, my words fall stem
by breaking stem each saying this
and this and this is what I am!

Before the closing of the year
I think that I can almost hear

the earth recalling every stone
to earth, and every blade of grass
and leaf – each name given but my own,

asked and asked for–come look.
Look again before I close the book.


April 5, 2006
All my telling

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

All for Love & the Modern Formalists - Megan Grumbling

The peculiarity of modern formalist poetry is that the poetry's effect is frequently that of free verse, as though the poets were either embarrassed to be writing formally or unable to shake its ghost from their ears.

Old habits die hard.

John Dryden's play "All for Love or, The World Well Lost", was printed in 1692. This play, another dramatization of Anthony and Cleopatra, was expressly "Written in Imitation of Shakespeare's Stile". By the time Dryden published his play, bank verse had been long dominated by heroic couplets. Many of his younger contemporaries seldom, if ever wrote in the idiom of Shakespeare. Blank verse, in its most common form, the form of Milton and Shakespeare, Keats and Wordsworth, Frost and Stevens, is a line of ten alternating unstressed & stressed syllables (the iambic pentameter line). Most importantly, blank verse does not rhyme or does not do so in any formal or predictable pattern.

The Restoration Poets found blank verse to be too licentious for their uses. Even anapests could be considered politically subversive and immoral. Instead, the restoration poets adopted heroic couplets as the only form up to their rigorous & civilized standards. Every two lines rhymed. The following are from prologues written by Dryden - the latter is from “The Conquest of Granada”. For all the propriety of his age, Dryden had a healthy sense of humor when it came to sex.

They who write Ill, and they who ne’r durst write,
Turn Critiques, out of meer Revenge and Spight...

...Some wiser Poet now would leave Fame first:
But elder wits are like old Lovers, curst;
Who, when the vigor of their youth is spent,
Still grow more fond as they grow impotent.
This, some years hence, our Poets case may prove;
But, yet, he hopes, he’s young enough to love.

In return for greater propriety, the restoration poets gave up much of the flexibility and malleability of the blank verse. Generally speaking, it takes an exceptional tailor to make formal clothes that are exceptionally comfortable and a genius if an excess of formality is to be overcome by an excess of comfort. There were no towering geniuses during the restoration. Milton, in writing Paradise Lost, dispensed with heroic couplets. At it is, the typical restoration poet’s lines are frequently end stopped simply because the demands of heroic couplets may more easily be met by end-stopped lines. In the brief excerpts above there is not a single example of enjambment. All of Dryden’s lines fall neatly into syntactical units which end, elegantly, with each line.

When it came time for Dryden to imitate Shakespeare, the force of compositional habit imprinted itself, ghostlike, in every passage of “All for Love”.

I pity Dollabella; but she’s dangerous:
Her eyes have pow’r beyond Thessalian Charms
To draw the Moon from Heav’n; for Eloquence,
The Sea-green Syrens taught her Voice their flatt’ry;
And, while she speaks, Night steals upon the Day,
Unmark’d of those that hear; Then she’s so charming,
Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth:
The holy Priests gaze on her when she smiles;
And with heav’d hands forgetting Gravity,
They bless her wanton Eyes: Even I who hate her,
With a malignant joy behold such Beauty...

IV: 264

Compared with Shakespeare’s equivalent passage:

I saw her once
Hop forty paces through the public street;
And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted
That she did make defect perfection,
And, breathless, power breath forth.

....Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety; other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies; for vilest things
Become themselves in her, that the holy preists
Bless her when she is riggish.

II, ii, 239

In Dryden’s passage, though he is writing blank verse, his meaning falls into the ghostly pattern of heroic couplets:

A- Her eyes have pow’r beyond Thessalian Charms
A- To draw the Moon from Heav’n; for Eloquence,

B - The Sea-green Syrens taught her Voice their flatt’ry;
B - And, while she speaks, Night steals upon the Day...

C - ...Then she’s so charming,
C- Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth:

The line endings still mostly break with their syntactical units. In Dryden’s passage there is only one example of enjambment, and weak at that. In Shakespeare’s passage there are seven instances of enjambment.

And now we return to the twenty-first century.

Instead of Restoration propriety, free verse dominates. If Dryden and his ilk were to step into our modern colleges, he might think he had stepped into a sort of “mirror-mirror” world. He would learn that some modern poets have out and out stated that iambic pentameter is politically corrupt, so much so that formalism is seen as subversive (patriarchal). He would struggle to find employment in any college writing program. Dryden – a strict formalist, intellectual, white and distinctly British – might find employment as a plumber.

Even so, one is increasingly finding blank verse and some formality. In the January 2006 issue of POETRY magazine, we find some beautiful poems by Megan Grumbling. But remember, this is mirror mirror world. Just as Dryden’s heroic couplets showed up, ghostlike, in his blank verse, free verse asserts itself, ghostlike, in modern formal verse.

“Their strident hold upon the back roads pulls
our morning drive, out to where Oak Woods Road
crosses the river that they call Great Woks.
The nearby fields so rich it’s hard to breathe–
the hay treacly with auburn, grasses bronzed–
we stop before a red farmhouse, just shy
of where the river runs, where maple trees
have laid the front lawns ravished with their loss.”

The enjambment of the first three lines has all the flavor of free-verse. There are no auditory clues (in the way of syntactical units) that might hint to a listener that these are lines of blank verse. One might as easily write the first sentence as follows:

Their strident hold upon the back roads pulls our morning drive, out to where Oak Woods Road crosses the river that they call Great Woks.

The average reader would never suspect that this was blank verse. He or she might, in a moment of preternatural attentiveness, notice that the line is entirely iambic. That said, there is no indication that this sentence is iambic “pentameter”. Given Grumbling’s approach, one might as easily print her poem as follows:

Their strident hold upon the back
roads pulls our morning drive, out to
where Oak Woods Road crosses the river
they call Great Woks. The nearby fields
so rich it’s hard to breathe– the hay
treacly with auburn, grasses bronzed–
we stop before a red farmhouse,
just shy of where the river runs,
where maple trees have laid the front
lawns ravished with their loss.

This is perfectly acceptable iambic tetrameter, but for the short last line. I only had to remove the purely metric “that”. It might be argued that one could submit any iambic pentameter poem to the same exercise, but such an argument would only be partially true. Once would find it exceedingly difficult to apply the same exercise to Shakespeare’s passage from Antony and Cleopatra. Or, more fairly, consider Frost’s “An Encounter”. (More fairly because Grumbling’s poetry is clearly inspired by Frost.)

Once on the kind of day called “weather breeder,”
When the heat slowly hazes and the sun
By its own power seems to be undone,
I was half boring through, half climbing through
A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil of cedar
And scurf of plants, and weary and over-heated,
And sorry I ever left the road I knew,
I paused and rested on a sort of hook
That had me by the coat as good as seated...

And now for the tetrameter version:


Once on the kind of day called “weather
breeder,” When the heat slowly hazes
and the sun by its own power seems
to be undone, I was half boring
through, half climbing through a swamp
of cedar. Choked with oil of cedar
And scurf of plants, and weary and
over-heated, And sorry I
ever left the road I knew, I
paused and rested on a sort of hook
That had me by the coat as good
as seated...

The latter isn’t a very passable version of iambic tatrameter. The third line is entirely trochaic and can only be “rescued” if we elide power to read pow’r. The fifth line fails altogether. I picked Frost’s poem at random, lest the reader think I picked one poem especially antithetical to such a treatment. What the poem illustrates is Frost’s skillful wedding of sense, grammatical & otherwise, to blank verse. The same commitment is not sensed in Grumbling’s poem, skillful though it is. One might assert that Grumbling’s poem is primarily iambic and only secondarily pentameter. The ghostly influence of free-verse pervades her poem, just as the ghost of heroic couplets pervaded Dryden’s blank verse. One might say that she only grasps the surface of blank verse, but her choices might also be deliberate.

More to the point, while she is not the worst offender, her verse is harmed by metrical expediency. One of the first words that need to be banished from the Formalist’s dictionary is “upon”. This is a bad, bad word. It’s only appearance in the modern English language is through the fault of poets and formalist poets particularly. They use it because it is a ready made iamb. Grumbling wastes no time falling upon its tempting iamb.

“we skim as much brimmed crimson as these few
stout bags will hold within, enough to lay
four inches of the fall upon this fields.”

The word “within” is metrical padding. How else does a bag hold anything but “within”? The word “upon” appears again,

More metrical padding appears with “out to where the Oak Woods Road...” Using modern English, we say: “out where the Oak Woods Road...” The unnecessary “to” reminds me of “for to”, as in, “I picked my roses for to kiss my love...” Happily, this archaism died from sheer embarrassment at the end of the 16th century. Who knows, its ghost might live on in some Amish communities...

However, in fairness to Grumbling, the promise of her poetry far outweighs the learning pangs.

As autumn and the Great Works trickle by,
we skim as much brimmed crimson as these few
stout bags will hold within, enough to lay
four inches of the fall upon this fields.
October’s task has raked the colors high.

These are beautiful lines of poetry. They show a willingness to learn from the old masters (an especially subversive and ridiculed practice in some modern circles). She has a sense for the music of language, like Frost, and is richly visual (perhaps at the expense of her other senses).

“The aging oaks have puckered, mollusk-like,
to clutch and hold the sun-blanched, rain-run board,
and all its ancient measurements, in place...”

From “Measures” – Poetry Magazine January 2006.

I can’t wait to see more from her. I can’t wait to see how she develops and how her mastery of metrical verse progresses.

Friday, March 17, 2006

The Shape of Poetry

It used to be that what separated poetry from paragraphs were the shapes poets poured their words into. Poets worked the miraculous, transforming water into wine. Gilgamesh, though it wasn't verse, was written in grammatic parallels. Homer wrote using the Classical Hexameter. The earliest poetry from what became the English Language is found in the few and rare poems of the Anglo Saxons. In his introduction to "The Earliest English Poems", Michael Alexander:

"Old English prose never achieved the sophisticated word-order or complex syntax of Greek or Latin.... This does not apply to verse. Poetry is a much older human accomplishment than prose, and the poets used a special archaic diction inherited from days when their art had been purely oral."

When Beowulf's telling rang in the halls of the Anglo Saxons, the shape of it took from an extempore oral tradition. The bards were like the great musical composers who riveted audiences with their skills at extempore performance. Today, the best rappers come closest to the story telling of the ancient bards, mixing improvised rhyme and rhythm with its own rhetoric and grammar. The elemental recognition of language’s rhythm and music, the source of poetry, is alive and well in rap.

Not so in modern poetry.

Twentieth century poets redefined poetry. Poetry was no longer known by rhyme, rhythm, meter, rhetoric, or metaphor. The old forms out of the oral tradition were brittle and stylized by the end of the nineteenth century. The oral roots of poetry were suffocated under the weight of literary tradition. What was changeable and malleable in the oral tradition turned rigid and stultifying under the Victorians.

The “free verse” poems were a gust of fresh air. The formless form was taken with fresh ideas. However, unlike the changing before it, free verse has remained the same for over a century. The first impulses that made it have, like the poetry it replaced, stagnated and suffocated. It is an aesthetic that dominates even a hundred years (or more by some accounts) after its beginning. Arguably, no other aesthetic has so dominated poetry for so long and so absolutely.

The shelves of our bookstores are filled with it. (It’s hard to find a contemporary Formalist on a store shelf.) Hundreds of new free-verse books are published every year. Every college houses its poet who makes and teaches the free verse poem (soon to be a decade into the twenty-first century). The pot is full. The roots are rotting.

Where is poetry going?

If there is a transition, what will it be and what will be the greatness of it? Free verse may go on or it may not, but it’s gone flat – the ground is fallow and ready for a new planting.