Working text of a lecture delivered at the Meridian Institute

Bringing Poetry Back To Life by John Enright

Poetry today

is dead.

All that's written

goes unread.

Yet song, its sister art, lives on, kicking and screaming in

rock lyrics, softly crooning in popular ballads, continuing

to draw a huge popular audience -- a paying audience, I might

add.

Why is this so?

By way of answer, I would point to the fact, that poetry

today no longer sounds like poetry, that no matter what it

sounds like, it has nothing to say that anyone wants to hear,

and that today's song lyrics, taken all in all, are far more

interesting, and far more poetic, than today's poetry.

Let me give you one example:

As I look back on yesteryear

A picture's coming clear

I see my father work the fields

My mother holds me near

I travelled far but now I'm here

To sing for you my tears

The yellow moon shines in my eyes

And watches while I cry

This is from an album that's been on the dance charts

recently, Shaday by a young Israeli woman named Ofra Haza.

It sounds a lot like traditional poetry, doesn't it?

Let me give you another example:

the phone rings in the middle of the night

my father yells what you gonna do with your life

oh daddy dear you know you're still number one

but girls they want to have fun

some boys take a beautiful girl

and hide her away from the rest of the world

I want to be the one to walk in the sun

oh girls they want to have fun

If you've heard Cyndi Lauper sing this, I'm sure it sounds

funny to hear me read it out loud without music.

But I hope you noticed some things about both these examples.

They both rhymed. They both followed fairly regular rhythms.

They both were understandable -- made sense. What is more,

in the process of making sense, both expressed human feelings

-- human values.

Now, you may ask whether the words of the songs mean anything

at all to people who like rock music. Do rock fans really

care at all about the lyrics? You bet they do. The evidence

is clear and simple. Instrumentals - compositions without

words -- almost never make the hit charts. What makes the

hit charts are songs.

I would like to quote some typical contemporary poetry for

you, but none comes to mind. If you can remember some, I

invite you to reflect upon it.

(moment of silence)

I was able to think of some things typical of the modern

poetry movement, but things have fallen to such a state that

nothing written since the sixties is particularly well known.

Here, in its entirety, is a well-known poem by William Carlos

Williams. It is titled, The Red Wheelbarrow.

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

Williams was writing in the twenties, and is a key figure in

the development of modern poetry. My example from the early

sixties is Sylvia Plath. This is the beginning of the title

poem from her posthumous book, Ariel:

Stasis in darkness.

Then the substanceless blue

Pour of tor and distances.

God's lioness,

How one we grow,

Pivot of heels and knees! -- The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to

The brown arc

Of the neck I cannot catch,

Let me say that I think this last poem is about the poet's

reaction to a sunrise. I'm not too sure.

Let me also say, that I purposely picked two pieces that

lacked most obvious musical qualities, and that failed to

express or evoke any direct feelings. In other words, I

picked poems that didn't really seem to be poems at all.

Alleged poems, that make rock lyrics, by comparison, sound

good.

But, I did not come here to praise rock lyrics. I don't know

that they're all that good. Nor did I come here to bury

today's poetry. It seems, already, to have dug itself a deep

grave and jumped right in.

I came here to praise poetry.

So let me talk for a while about some of the good stuff.

It is often said that English poetry had two major heydays --

The first was the Elizabethan period -- the time of

Shakespeare -- in the sixteenth century. The second was the

Romantic period -- the time of Wordsworth -- in the

nineteenth century.

I agree that these were the big two periods. Let us look at

them in turn.

An Elizabethan poem:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy, contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

This is Shakespeare's twenty-ninth sonnet.

It's a strongly worded poem. He scorns to change his state

with kings. He goes from an extreme of distress -- crying

out to a deaf heaven -- to an extreme of joy -- singing like

a lark at sunrise.

There is one extreme he does not reach. In a poem which is

otherwise notable for its uncompromising force of language,

Shakespeare feels it necessary to throw in one weakening

qualifier -- one use of the word "almost."

Did you notice it? "Myself almost despising." That's right.

Even though he is dissatisfied with himself, even though he

is wishing that he had other men's qualities, he can't quite

get around to actually despising himself.

Not very modern of him. But this was an age of pride and

passion. This was the English Renaissance.

Now, a poem from the Romantic period:

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

This is by William Wordsworth, and is known by it first line,

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud.

It is a nature poem, of course. Its descriptions of the

daffodils are lively and lovely. But the final focus of the

poems is on the lasting value that this experience provided

to the poet. Compared to the Shakespeare sonnet, this poem

is much more of one mood. It is undeniably enthusiastic.

And it is utterly without irony.

Very un-modern, again. But the feeling is quite different.

The pride and passion of the Elizabethans has here given way

to the freedom and enthusiasm of the Romantics.

Common to both groups, is the delight they take in letting

you know what is on their minds -- and in their hearts.

This delight in baring one's soul, turns out to be important

to the creation of good poetry -- because poetry, more than

the other art forms, is a frighteningly naked form of

expression.

In fiction, you may hide behind the story,

In painting, you may hide behind the scene;

But if in poetry you seek for glory,

You must come out and tell us what you mean.

Music and architecture are not directly representational

arts at all, and the very abstractness of their forms puts a

certain distance between the artist and his creation. The

self-revelation, though real, is not so concrete and

particular.

Now, I do not mean to say that poetry's main or sole function

is confessional, or that it should feel itself confined to

the expression of intimate feelings only. Poetry is

exquisitely suited to such expression, but it is quite

capable of making loud public statements as well. In either

case, the expression is closely identified with the personal

values of the individual poet.

Between the Elizabethan and the Romantic ages, was the age of

Reason and Enlightenment. Was this an especially good time

for poetry? No. Is this because poetry is inherently

irrational? Again, no. But the issues are connected.

The enlightenment, while championing reason, took a dim view

of intense emotions. "Enthusiasm" was considered a vice, not

a virtue. These people were not exactly opposed to emotion,

but thought it should be well-tempered -- balanced and

reasonable.

The enlightenment, while championing individual rights,

tended to downplay the value and importance of individual

differences. Their stress was on mankind's common nature,

and they were acutely aware of its common failings.

Here is part of an Enlightenment poem:

Let Observation, with extensive view,

Survey mankind, from China to Peru;

Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,

And watch the busy scenes of crowded life;

Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate

O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate,

Where wavering man, betrayed by venturous pride

To tread the dreary paths without a guide,

As treacherous phantoms in the mist delude,

Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good;

How rarely Reason guides the stubborn choice,

Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice;

How nations sink, by darling schemes oppressed,

When Vengeance listens to the fool's request.

This is the opening of Samuel Johnson's "The Vanity Of Human

Wishes." Perhaps you think it boring and didactic.

Certainly I do. Didacticism is indeed the snare that waits

for those who come to art with the idea that reason must be

favored over emotion. After all, if reason must be favored,

why work to achieve an emotional impact? Doesn't emotional

impact just interfere with the audience's ability to listen

carefully and truly understand? Isn't it better to strive

for muted but pleasant emotional effects that entice the

attention without overloading the heart?

Yawn.

This is what the Romantics were rebelling against.

So let me say something about the banner of this get-

together: Art Within Reason. Please do not imagine this

means Art Without Emotion. In art, as in life, reason and

emotion should work together toward common ends -- as the eye

and the hunger of the eagle work together when the eagle goes

a-hunting. The hunger is what gets the eagle flying. The

eye -- the vision -- is what tells the eagle where to dive.

I would like to read to you a poem about an eagle, a poem

called The Eagle, by Alfred Tennyson. Tennyson is probably

the best known of the Victorian poets -- the poets who

came right after the Romantic period -- and who came right

before the modern period.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt, he falls.

You may think this is beautiful, musical, perfectly clear,

and startlingly dramatic. I do.

This is what the modern poetry movement was rebelling

against.

Why? What was it that early twentieth century poets didn't

like about late nineteenth century verse?

Well, they thought it was sentimental, sing-songy and

complacent. Their plan, in the wake of the first world war,

was to bring poetry up to date with the times by making it

alienated, anxious, and musically flat.

The operation was a success, and the patient has never

recovered.

The alienated poet is unable to make a statement because he

feels distant from reality -- because the world doesn't make

sense to him. But a statement, precisely, claims to make

sense of the world. So statements will not do. In their

place goes the kind of wording a man can hide behind.

Wording ambiguous, ironical, and incoherent.

The alienated poet is unable to express his feelings, because

he is at odds with himself, and his feelings don't make sense

to him either. They are a messy jumble.

The sound effects should be a messy jumble too. Regular

sound effects -- regular rhythm, regular rhyme -- seem to

betoken a settled framework of thought and feeling. Seem to

betoken an orderly universe.

An orderly universe? In an age of cosmic anxiety? Not too

likely. Remember, the poet is to express the age by sharing

its anxiety -- its nameless ball of a thousand unfaced fears

-- its endless swarm of infectious mosquito-sized worries.

The poet is left as an anxiety-ridden, mosquito-bitten

wretch, unable to concentrate, emotionally exhausted. Even

if he wanted to express his thoughts and feelings, he's

hardly got any left to express.

T.S. Eliot is often regarded as the key figure in the

development of modern English poetry. He was a learned man

who still knew how to write in verse.

Let us look at one of his more musical passages, and catch

his drift. I will set the scene for you. A young woman, a

typist, has invited a pimply-faced young man, a clerk, over

to her apartment. They have just finished dinner.

The time is now propitious, as he guesses,

The meal is ended, she is bored and tired

Endeavors to engage her in caresses,

Which still are unreproved if undesired.

Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;

Exploring hands encounter no defence;

His vanity requires no response,

And makes a welcome of indifference.

This is from Eliot's The Wasteland. Note the emotional

quality of this seduction scene -- a kind of fascinated

disdain -- a disdain which is actually reminiscent of Samuel

Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes. Remember, "wavering man,

betrayed by venturous pride" treading "dreary paths without a

guide." I think Johnson was talking about Eliot's clerk and

typist.

If Eliot's Wasteland reflected alienation from the world,

another of his poems better reflects his alienation from

himself.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt an easy tool

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--

Almost, at times the fool.

I grow old... I grow old...

I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

Earlier in the same poem, he asks:

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions

which a minute will reverse.

This is alienation, anxiety and uncertainty. This is the

Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

The portions I have read you are still metered and rhymed,

but perhaps you noticed their flatness -- their lack of

bounce.

The content too, you may have noticed, is somewhat rambling,

somewhat pointless.

Here is the danger for the poet. The flat sound and the

pointlessness undercut the poem -- undercut its effect.

But what I have read to you is among Eliot's most striking

and memorable lines. The main direction for modern poetry

was into utter flatness, utter pointlessness.

Remember:

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

But the drought was not total. Here and there, fresh water

continued to spring forth, and I would like to talk about two

modern poets, two of my favorites, who wrote stuff that still

had some real bounce and life to it -- real poetry.

I point to these two as proof that even in our time, poetry

can live. Both of these men were acutely aware of the

problems of the modern age, and both attempted to come to

grips with some of these problems in their poetry.

My first example is William Butler Yeats. Some of his stuff

is obscure, some unrhymed and harsh. But he had a lyrical

gift that did not stop until he died.

One of his last poems, written shortly before the beginning

of World War II, is set against the idea that politics should

be a man's central concern.

How can I, that girl standing there,

My attention fix

On Roman or on Russian

Or on Spanish politics?

Yet here's a traveled man that knows

What he talks about,

And here's a politician

That has read and thought

And maybe what they say is true

Of war and wars alarms

But O that I were young again

And held her in my arms!

That poem was titled Politics. The other poem I want to read

you, dated 1929, is titled Death.

Nor dread nor hope attend

A dying animal;

A man awaits his end

Dreading and hoping all;

Many times he died,

Many times rose again.

A great man in his pride

Confronting murderous men

Casts derision upon

Supersession of breath,

He knows death to the bone --

Man has created death.

Please note the admiring portrait of the great man who spits

on death. This is the kind of pride that allowed Yeats to

scorn most of the trends of modern poetry.

My second example is a man who was best known as a

philosopher and translator, who also happened to publish a

book of his own poems. His name was Walter Kaufmann. He was

German born, but came to America as a young man to escape

Hitler. He died in 1980.

In 1940, he wrote this poem, entitled Exile, addressed to

Adolph Hitler.

This was my land before you came.

For both of us it was too small.

I left, but I expect to tell

one day the story of your fall.

Kaufmann favored short poems with a sharp point, a form very

typical of German poetry.

One of his shortest poems, is as follows:

What is hard

To follow

Often hides lard

Or is hollow.

This is dated 1961.

Finally, here is a poem called Kaufmann's Laws:

This is the first of Kaufmann's Laws;

the weakling always fails because

somebody else did wrong.

The second: those who don't despair

but grow when others are unfair

give proof that they are strong.

Kaufmann was incensed by T.S. Eliot's claim that modern day

existence made it impossible for a poet to achieve greatness.

In his book, From Shakespeare To Existentialism, Kaufmann

wrote:

"The prime source of any feeling of futility, frustration,

and anxiety lies in the self Shakespeare could face the

thought that ... life is 'a tale told by an idiot' without

being overwhelmed by self pity. ...[P]eople who now blame

their time for many of their shortcomings [should] recognize

their self-deception."

Indeed, the first requirement for bringing poetry back to

life, is to throw off this idea that the poet must conform to

the fashions of his time.

In the best of times, fashion provides merely a cloak of

mediocrity. At present, fashion provides a shroud.

Here, then, would be my advice to aspiring poets.

Throw off all fashion. Throw off the fashions of poetry, and

the fashions of philosophy as well.

Look at the world with your own eyes. Listen to its songs

with your own ears. Have the courage to judge them for

yourself.

Only then will you have something to say to the world. Only

then will you have an idea of how your song should sound.

Above all, do not be scared by sneers. Do not be scared away

from rhyme by mere sneers. Do not be scared away from deep

feelings by mere sneers.

If you feel lost in confusion, then by all means find your

way out. As a starting point, I would recommend the works of

Ayn Rand, the Russian-American philosopher and novelist. The

author of The Fountainhead. She never wrote much about

poetry, but she had a lot to say about art and life, and her

outlook has greatly colored my own.

Finally, above all, find poetry that you really like --

poetry that you love, and try to figure out, by the light of

reason, what makes you love it. Focus in on the how of the

lines that stir your soul. It is the how that you need to

understand and emulate.

I would like to end by thanking you for listening to me so

patiently, and by reading a poem of my own which I feel is

appropriate to the occasion.

I wrote it for Walter Kaufmann, but not only for him…

Amid the wasteland, he

Created an alternative

Proved poetry

Might live.

Refuting the dung

The age demands

Be sung

His temple stands.

The age cries out

That he has missed

What it's all about!

Better yet -- that he doesn't exist!

But the dung shall fade

In the sun --

Evaporate!

And his work live on.

Works and authors quoted, in order

Shaday, Ofra Haza and Bezalel Aloni

(title track from Ofra Haza album: Shaday)

Girls Just Want To Have Fun, Robert Hazard

(big hit from Cyndi Lauper album, She's So Unusual)

The Red Wheelbarrow, William Carlos Williams

Ariel, Sylvia Plath

29th Sonnet, William Shakespeare

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud, William Wordsworth

The Vanity Of Human Wishes, Samuel Johnson

The Eagle, Alfred Tennyson

The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot

The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

Politics, William Butler Yeats

Death, William Butler Yeats

Exile, Walter Kaufmann

The Core, Walter Kaufmann

Kaufmann's Laws, Walter Kaufmann

For Walter Kaufmann, John Enright

Book note: Kaufmann's "Cain And Other Poems" is out of print.

So is his book of translations: "Twenty German Poets."

But I recommend them to your attention if you can find them.

Outline

Theme: The role of self-valuation in poetic creation.

A. State of contemporary poetry

compared to state of contemporary song

B. Heydays of English poetry: Elizabethan & Romantic

periods

C. The lull between: The Enlightenment

D. The wasteland beyond: Modern times

E. 2 moderns who didn't fit in

William Butler Yeats

Walter Kaufmann

F. What is needed now