Poundian Indirection, Archambaldian Indiscretion

Alex Davis (whom I haven't seen since the MSA conference in Philadelphia in '99 — too long!) writes in from Cork about the war poetry conversation, with this learned note on the influence of Pound on David Jones:

I'm enjoying the Blog-exchange with Mark Scroggins. To chip in my penny's-worth, there is in fact no direct influence of Pound on In Parenthesis. As late as the composition of The Wedding Poems and the beginnings of The Anathemata, Jones had still to read The Cantos. The Possum, yes, of course-The Waste Land is a clear precursor to In Parenthesis, but not Pound.

So it seems that any Poundian influence on this stage of Jones' work comes indirectly, via the savage blue-penciling Pound gave to Eliot's Waste Land. I'm beginning to think that, despite some reservations about it in erudite places, I may have to read Keith Alldritt’s biography of Jones, David Jones: Writer and Artist, which has been glaring down at me, unread and resentful, from my bookshelf for close to two years. This may, at least, save me from further indiscrete remarks.

David Jones vs Anonymity

Mark Scroggins makes some interesting contributions/corrections/refinements to the ongoing discussion of war poetry prompted by Kevin Prufer's "Army Tales." Firstly, he points out that the tomb of the unknown soldier works through synechdoche not metonymy (right! And in the most literal way possible!). Secondly, he draws an interesting distinction between what Prufer's up to and what David Jones was doing in In Parentheses:

First of all, I don’t particularly read what’s going on in David Jones’s In Parenthesis – the superposition of previous wars over the Great War – so much to be a matter of the contemporary soldier’s “anonymity” ... as simply a matter of precisely superposition. That is, the Anglo-Welsh Great War soldier does not lose his contemporary identity when he recognizes that he’s standing in the same shoes as one of King Harry’s invaders of France, but rather finds his contemporary situation enriched (a dreadful word, given the horrors described in the poem, but I can’t come up with a better at the moment) and deepened.... [I]t’s a matter of “getting at the shared life beyond the individual life,” but I don’t think it necessarily involves the loss of individual identity, as in the anonymity imposed by the state apparatuses of Jarrell and Auden.

This makes sense to me. I was trying to get at the sense, shared in Prufer and Jones, of the identity of all soldiers, or at any rate of their shared participation in a larger identity. This seems to me to be one of the great tropes of war poetry — you even see it, in a way, in Wilfred Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth," where the "anthem" is not for any national group, but for the soldiers of all sides, in their sharing of an identity stronger than any mere national identity. But there is a real distinction, as Mark points out, between shared identity via anonymity and shared identity via a felt participation in the lives of those who have preceded you (and, for Jones, geography counts: the shared identity is largely for those who have preceded you in this place).

I suppose the use of anonymity does connect, for Prufer, with the humanistic critique of bureaucratic life, putting him in the Auden-Jarrell camp. For Jones, though, the key is Christianity, with a big dose of Poundian modernism, rather than an anti-bureaucratic humanism, so he'll approach the work from a different angle. In Jones' work, the identity of self and other doesn't come from an erasing of individuality by the state. Rather, that self/other identity can exist even while individuality is retained. I suppose what we're dealing with in Jones, then, is a kind of aesthetics of mystery (you know, like the trinity), in the theological sense of that word.

Good Taste, Disinterest, and the Divided Self, with a Peroration Concerning the Doom of Iraqi Democracy

So there I was, leafing through the New York Times Magazine, having scurried out early into the snow to get it before the lovely and talented Valerie woke up and took possession of it for the morning (the pre-nup specified that I’d get the first shot at the book reviews if she got first shot at the magazine, an agreement about which I’ve been ambivalent ever since). As I ruminated over Randy Cohen’s Ethicist column, it hit me: modernity is disinterest. What, you say? What could this mean? And how does it connect to Randy Cohen (or, for that matter, to good taste, disinterest, and the failure of democracy in Iraq)? Good questions, all! And, fuelled as I am by Intelligentsia’s powerful Sumatran coffee beans, I’ll endeavor an answer.

Randy Cohen’s weekly column, “The Ethicist,” sets forth to answer, in practical terms, the ethical questions that arise in the daily lives of the readers of the New York Times. In this week’s installment, the redoubtable Randy begins with a question from a guy in Cambridge, Mass, who reads books and magazines aloud in order to make tapes for blind people. While engaged in this worthy endeavor, the guy — a good lefty such as one finds in Cambridge — was asked to read some right wing screeds put out by the despicable John Birch Society. What to do? Read on, or act on one’s personal conviction that this stuff is immoral? Randy Cohen has no problem providing an answer for our Cambridge worrier. “Your function is akin to a librarian’s,” he writes, “to provide requested material, not to judge it.”

In effect, Cohen is saying that our social function must be kept separate from our private convictions. We are to be disinterested professionals at work, setting aside personal ethics for professional ones. So a doctor, loyal to medicine and the Hippocratic Oath, would be obliged to treat anyone who came for help – even a Hitler or a Stalin. So a lawyer, assigned to protect a person he believes to be guilty, is obliged to make that person’s case to the best of his or her ability. The ethic here is one of disinterest and gessellschaft — of setting aside personal interests and convictions in a society of abstract, contractual relations. It makes for a very split self (the part of me with real convictions, and the part of me that performs a social role according to ethics determined by that role alone). This is interesting, in that while it is entirely ordinary for our society to take Cohen’s view, the view is quite rare historically and in many other cultures.

I want to say two things about all this: first, that this ethic is a product of the Enlightenment and a property of Western Civ (broadly conceived, and incorporated to varying degrees in other cultures); and second, that the idea comes, ultimately, out of 18th century theorizing about (of all things) good taste. Yes indeed. I really do think I can make the connection.

To see how thoroughly Western this idea is, we could turn to all sorts of sources, but the one I have in mind is an article in the latest issue of The American Scholar, which I was thumbing through in the Lake Forest train station Thursday morning, waiting for the Metra after an “I’m getting too old for this shit” all night end-of-semester shindig thrown by a colleague (a colleague whose guest-bed mattress seems, I might somewhat petulantly add, to have been designed and built by Torquemada). One of the main articles in the current issue, Lawrence Rosen’s “What We Got Wrong: How Arabs Look at the Self, their Society, and their Political Institutions” makes a grim but convincing case about the poor prospects for Western-style democracy in Iraq (problems that would persist even if the current attempt at setting up an oil-vending democracy hadn’t been implemented at the end of a gun by a nation that had killed untold thousands of Iraqis — a particularly unpropitious proposition).

Rosen (a sharp guy, and an anthropologist at Princeton) lays down a number of factors that mitigate against the success of democracy in Iraq, but I’d like to focus on two of them. In the first, Rosen argues that, in contrast to the West,

in the Arab world the self is never seen as divided. Whereas in the West we imagine ourselves able to take on multiple, even contradictory roles — as when an official gives support to a law with which he personally disagrees — to Arabs this self-segmentation runs contrary to the idea of a person as a unified whole.

So, while it seems clear to a guy like Randy Cohen to advise someone to separate his ethical convictions from his social role, this sort of separation doesn’t make sense to cultures operating with different logics. It is a deeply Western idea — and, as the letter to Cohen makes clear, one that isn’t always obvious even in the West, where some people feel ambivalent enough about it to turn to an professional ethicist for help.

Another point of Rosen’s carries this idea of an Arab resistance to democracy outward from the self to the social world. In the Arab world. Rosen says,

political institutions have never been separated from the individuals connected to them. Indeed, personal attachments — whether to a political leader, spiritual guide, or close relative — focus not on the settled expectations of position but on the constantly shifting network of obligation through which each actor seeks to negotiate an advantageous connection.

So, while in the West there is this notion of the separation of person and office or role (you may not like the John Birch Society, but damn it your professional ethics demand that you read it onto tape for the blind man who wants to stoke his ignorance and rage with the contents of those pages), this just doesn’t pertain elsewhere. While a Western official is (ideally, though not always in practice) impartial, looking after everyone impartially and with a kind of disinterestedness, this sort of division is not available in the Arab world, where gemeinschaft networks of contact and obligation are the norm. We’d see many Arab officials as corrupt and nepotistic (and, described in terms of the logic of our system, they would indeed be corrupt). In their own estimation, though, they’d just be remaining true to themselves and looking after their peeps.

Of course, this divorcing of personal ethical conviction from institutional activity that we see in the West doesn’t always manifest itself in positive ways. One example of creepy shit connected to this that comes to mind involves the advertising industry. One of the most chilling parts of the generally excellent documentary about capitalist social organization,The Corporation, shows us how an otherwise decent human being can do bad things because of the kind of dissociation of private ethics from institutional life that we’ve come to expect in the West. In one scene, a very chipper and apparently quite bright woman from the advertising industry (who doesn’t seem to know just what kind of documentary she’s in) goes on about how marketing research has shown that it just isn’t effective to market children’s toys to parents. You’ve got to market directly to the kids, crafting ads aimed at their level of cognitive development, with the goal of getting them to nag their parents into submission. Empirical studies, she says, show that parents hate this, and other studies indicate how much pressure of what kind one has to put on kids to get them to nag their parents the right way. Parents then buy the kid the product in order to get some peace back in the house. When the filmmakers asked the marketing executive how she felt about the ethics of deliberately introducing misery into households, she didn’t seem phased. “That’s the best way to do our job,” she said (or words to that effect — I returned the DVD to the library the other day, dreading any addition to the mammoth late fees I’d already racked up by hanging onto the 4-CD history of Jamaican music that’s been overdue for the past two weeks or so — excellent music for grooving around the kitchen with a cocktail while cooking, I might add, and quite possibly the source for a poem. But I digress). So here’s a dark side to the Western system: perfectly decent people who love their own children can step into the office and do some seriously evil shit without batting an eye.

Okay. So disinterest is one of the defining characteristics of the contemporary West ("disinterest is modernity," one might say, hoping to make an impression). But if this system of disinterest and the separation of self from role is indeed a Western thing, and only recently so (I mean, doesn’t the world of obligation-networks Rosen describe sound a lot like the Elizabethan England Stephen Greenblatt writes about in Renaissance Self-Fashioning) how did it come into being in the first place? Here, I think, is where the idea of good taste comes into play. Check it out.

The idea of the beautiful (and of taste in things beautiful) is deeply tied to the idea of disinterest in the main line of Western aesthetics from the 18th century on through the 20th century, and even in our time, for some die-hards. Here’s my favorite chunk of text for explaining the idea of a disinterested appreciation of beauty. This imaginary dialogue comes from Coleridge’s On the Principles of Genial Criticism, and serves (according to the students in my theory of lit seminar last semester) as a better example of Kant’s ideas than any examples Kant came up with:

Let us suppose Milton in company with some stern and prejudiced Puritan, contemplating the front of York Cathedral, and at length expressing his admiration for its beauty. We will suppose it too at that time of his life, when his religious opinions most nearly coincided with those of the rigid antiprelatists. P[uritan]: Beauty, I am sure, it is not the beauty of holiness. M[ilton]: True, but yet it is beautiful. P:It delights not me. What is it good for? Is it of any use but to be stared at? M: Perhaps not! But still it is beautiful. P: But call to mind the pride and wanton vanity of those cruel shavelings, that wasted the labor and sbstance of so many thousand poor creatures in the erection of this haughty pile. M: I do. But still it is very beautiful. P: Think how many score places of worship, incomparably better suited both for prayer and preaching, and how many faithful ministers might have been maintained, to the blessing of tens of thousands, to them and their children’s children, with the treasures so lavished on this worthless mass of stone and cement. M: too true! But nevertheless it is very beautiful. P: And it is not merely useless, but it feeds the pride of the prelates, and keeps alive popish and carnal spirit among the people. M: Even so!

It goes on, but the text is too obscure to be available anywhere online except one site that isn’t responding right now, and I tire of typing. Also, I imagine you get it: matters of taste in the beautiful, in the view of Coleridge’s Milton (who speaks, somewhat anachronistically for a whole 18th and 19th century tradition in aesthetics) is to be judged without reference to our sense of utility or morality. In this view, we are separate from parts of ourselves when we make an aesthetic judgment. We set aside such things as personal connections (“that painting is beautiful because my daughter painted it/is in it/bought it for me”) and ethical reservations (“Leni Riefenstahl is a lousy filmmaker because she supported the Nazis”). We become divided selves, compartmentalized in exactly the way Rosen tells us the Arabs, with their refusal of “self-segmentation,” are not. And once we become divided from parts of ourselves at the level of aesthetics (where the stakes seem so low to so many people), we’re ready to become divided from other parts of ourselves, like ethics. We’re ready to treat people with the same disinterest Coleridge’s Milton treated the Cathedral, without bias regarding our personal prejudices. We’re ready to treat our own actions that way, too, without reference our own ethics (“business is business,” we tautologically opine, while doing things we wouldn’t countenance if we weren’t enabled in the divorcing of individual ethics from professional ethics).

(Caffeine-fuelled sidebar: Pierre Bourdieu has convincingly argued that this self-segmentation is a class marker — specifically a bourgeois and upper-class class marker. The working classes in his survey of French taste didn’t make these kinds of distinctions between the good or useful or personally-connected and the beautiful. In effect, they’re with Coleridge’s Puritan, not his Milton. And John Berger’s work bears this out too, but that’s another blog entry, one I’ll probably never get round to).

Anyway. The interesting thing to me is this: the idea of disinterest in the West begins to come into being in the 18th century, and it begins in discussions of taste. It travels into the realms of politics, institutions, corporations, and professional ethics (the stuff Randy Cohen supports and the makers of The Corporation find creepy), but it begins with taste and aesthetics. You don’t really get it as a part of ethics until after you get it as a part of aesthetics, unless you count the Third Earl of Shaftesbury’s 18th century Characteristicks, in which aesthetic disinterest and ethical disinterest are sort of united (trust me, I spent the first half of last summer up to my tweedy academic elbows in Shaftesbury's works).

The reasons for this early theorizing about disinterest as vital to aesthetics are themselves quite fascinating. So are the paths disinterest takes on the way from being an aesthetic idea to being a key element of gessellschaft social organization, and of modernity itself. I could go on. But I rather imagine that anyone who’s made it this far into this entry is thinking it is high time for Archambeau to settle down, so I’ll let all that wait for another Sumatra-bean fuelled trip to the outer blogosphere.

War Poetry and the Aesthetics of Anonymity

A few days ago John Peck dropped me an email about my last post on Kevin Prufer's "Army Tales." He raises some interesting issues about the anonymity of the soldiers in Prufer's poem, and in other poems about war:

...as I read thje poem for the third time, my ear took me not to the ambiance of WWI for literary comparison but to WWII and Jarrell's Pacific Theatre poems — specifically their tone. That association, if valid, raises an interesting question for me: do the ways in which these poems by a non-combatant at some distance and a combatant fairly close-up seem similar (enlisting feeling through generic detail, and then through their pungent round-offs) have to do with the anonymity to which people are reduced by modern warfare? That was already David Jones's major theme (as former combatant) in his In Parnethesis.

Though Peck's got Jarrell in the wrong place (Jarrell spent the war working at an Army Air Corps training center in the southwest), he's dead-on about the anonymity shared by the soldiers in Prufer's poem and in, say, Jarrell's famous "Death of the Ball Turret Gunner":

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Both Prufer and Jarrell give us soldiers reduced to nameless figures performing in unspecified environments. But there's an important difference, I think: Jarrell's poem is part of a broad, midcentury humanist critique (think The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit) of the dehumanizing nature of bureaucratic, administered, gesselschraft-based society — Prufer's poem makes a gesture of this kind at the end, but for most of its length it is up to something else.

Right from the beginning of Jarrell's poem, when the ominous "State" substitutes for the mother, we get a strong sense of this humanist critique. C.D. Wright nailed it, I think, when she wrote:

… [I]n war poem heaped upon war poem, beginning with "The Ball Turret Gunner," and never again with such dexterous compassion and plain eloquence, Jarrell blames the villainy of the world not on Germans (whose literature he would wholly adopt), nor on Japanese, but on the one neutrally destructive force, the State.(Field 35, 1986)

This puts Jarrell's poem closer to, say, Auden's "Unknown Citizen" than it is to Prufer's "Army Tales."

The soldierly anonymity in Prufer's poem has, I think, more in common with the anonymity of soldiers in the works of another poet mentioned by Peck, David Jones. David Jones's war poetry uses that great Modernist trope of juxtaposing past and present. But unlike an Eliot or a Pound, who'd often see the present as an ironic or sterile or debased version of the past, Jones (ever the Blakean visionary) saw a kind of eternity, in which things we think of a seperate are fused into one. Michael Anania set this straight for me, once, in an interview for Samizdat, where he said:

...for Jones the significant past is not the source of an irony about the present: it is a part of the synchronistic present. This sense of synchrony is part of Jones’ Christianity, in which all time is present in the eyes of God. So when Jones, a Welshman, goes to war in France (the experience behind In Parentheses) the event is religiously and ethnologically significant, and the events he experiences take on a larger resonance. For example, when a soldier falls in Jones, and his helmet falls down over his face, Jones associates that with the vision of visor the worn by knights at war over the same ground long ago.(Samizdat 9, 2002)

This synchronistic/Modernist anonymity seems to me to be what's at work in Prufer. Rather than offering a humanistic critique of bureaucratic social organization, such a poetry seeks to show the common life shared by all people (even those in combat against one another). So "the boy" in Prufer's army tales is both many different boys and a single boy at the same time. Like Jones, Prufer is a visionary poet, and tries to see with the eyes of eternity. (The technique is consistent with that of his book Fallen from a Chariot, which I see, more and more, as a single poem. If you want to hear me go on about it for a few pages, check out the next issue of the Notre Dame Review).

Anonymity in a poem like Jarrell's "Death of the Ball-Turret Gunner" (or Auden's "Unknown Citizen") is presented as a bad thing, thrust on to real people by an uncaring state that is perfectly willing to erase the individuality of people. But in Jones or Prufer, something quite different is at work. Anonymity here is a way of getting at the shared life beyond the individual life. Anonymity becomes a way of representing the common humanity of soldiers in different wars, or fighting on different sides in the same war.

Anonymity plays a number of roles in the art that comes out of war: the humanism of Jarrell and the visionary poetics of Prufer and Jones are just two. Consider, for example, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier: there, the anonymity allows the remains within to serve as a metonym for all of the unknown dead.

This is not to say that an onomastic (name-based) aesthetic for the pity of war can't be moving, though. John Matthias works in this way in his poetry, as (most famously) does Maya Lin in the Vietnam Veterans Memorial where, as Wilfred Owen would put it, the poetry is surely in the pity.

Home Front War Poetry

Am I violating any copyright laws by reposting this poem from Poetry Daily? I'm not sure. But Kevin Prufer is a poet I admire, and this new poem seems particularly timely. Prufer's last book, Fallen from a Chariot, is powerfully elegiac. I'd assumed from the intensity of that book's grief that the death he'd described there came from some event in his personal experience, and I still think that is must have. But here he shows that his ear for elegy is every bit as sound when he deals with events he's unlikely to have experienced first hand.

Army Tales

Kevin Prufer


The boy who drowned in the bog, the boy caught in the rotors, the boy who laughed too loud —

The boy who swallowed the bee that stung the throat —

The rip cord worked, but the parachute fluttered weakly above him and would not bloom —

He put his foot down in the foreign grass and heard a click, as of metal on metal. When he lifted that foot —

Sometimes it is a cold day and the clouds rain toxin over the boys on the base —

Sometimes, they don't know they're being watched, leaning against their packs, asleep like that —

One more, one more, he said. One more all around — And the assembled clapped for him, they clapped, he put his money down and smiled because they loved him —

Sometimes a boy thinks he is unloved, so he retires to a dark tent where he will not be disturbed —

Then, the cells wink out like lights on a tall office building in a strange city at dusk —

His friends said it was a sad day, it was very sad. They thought he'd been kidding, they told him not to laugh like that —

You pull the string and out it blooms —

And what was he doing off the base late at night? What was he doing on the open water, in the plane, driving so fast down unfamiliar roads? His mother —

Someone would tell her. Someone would write her a letter, thank god. There's a template for that —

A guy who puts your name on the hard drive, a distant office, a simple program and printer —

You punch in the name and out it comes.

I taught some poems by the great World War One poet Wilfred Owen the other day, as I do most semesters in my 19th/early 20th century literature survey course. This semester my students were remarkably engaged by the poems, for reasons we can guess. That engagement, along with this new poem by Prufer, have me thinking with sorrow that we may soon find ourselves in another period of powerful poetry about war — poetry that will inevitably resemble Owen's work more than it will that of someone gung-ho and innocent like Rupert Brooke. There will be soldiers' poems, I'm sure, and probably a large body of work by those of us who only see the war on television and need to do something with the frustration and the grief. Prufer's poem shows just how good this latter kind of work can be.

Politics and Style

Okay, I know that the most offensive thing in the following passage from the new White House plan for victory in the midterm elections (uh, I mean in Iraq) is the overt lie (that the war in Iraq is part of the war on terrorism, not a distraction from it that makes us less safe). But let's stick to matters of style:

As the central front in the global war on terror, success in Iraq is an essential element in the long war against the ideology that breeds international terrorism. Unlike past wars, however, victory in Iraq will not come in the form of an enemy’s surrender, or be signaled by a single particular event – there will be no Battleship Missouri, no Appomattox.

Right. It is well known that George W. Bush has issues with language, but you'd think the White House would be competent to hire some good writers, capable of lying to us in a grammatically correct manner. But no! While the writers mean to say that Iraq is the "central front in the global war on terror," they actually say that success in Iraq is the central front. Success isn't a place! No! Who are these writers? Power-point monkeys of some kind? The English professor pulleth out his hair in frustration.

One also has to wonder about the writers including a reference to the Japanese surrender aboard the battleship Missouri. Didn't Bush already tell us something about victory from the decks of a warship? Sigh. Grumble.


ADDENDUM: For a good example of the way ideology and political crisis can distort language, see this article on how Donald Rumsfeld doesn't want us to use the word "insurgency" anymore. No indeed. He wants us to call the Iraqi insurgents (noun, "people who revolt against civil authority") "the terrorists." I suppose the idea is to re-enforce the Big Lie at the start of Bush's new plan: that Al-Queda and the Iraqi insurgency are, somehow, one and the same. Interestingly, as the story reveals, his own generals have refused to toe this line.

Simone Muench in the Gray Ganges

When I shuffle down my driveway Sunday mornings to pick up the newspaper Tony Soprano style (tee shirt, boxers, bathrobe, morning stubble and rope-soled canvas shoes), I generally know what to expect: the great gray Ganges that is the New York Times reliably delivers an editorial I'll like (generally by Frank Rich), and editorial I'll hate but that is just intelligent enough to compel me to read through to the end (generally by David Brooks), a magazine I'll be unable to pry loose from the hands of the lovely and talented Valerie, and a book review section more interesting for its treatment of historical nonfiction (lives of rich dead white guys, mostly) than for its choice of literature. But lately some more interesting things have been surfacing there, and the once-moribund poetry reviews have been spiced up with the occasional comment on a book of poems I actually want to read. Today a new high-water mark was reached, I think, as the oyster-gray waters lapped up on me bearing a review of Simone Muench's latest, Lampblack and Ash.

Joel Brouwer, who wrote the short review, seems to know what he's reading. "Many poets have developed crushes on the French surrealist Robert Desnos," Joel writes, "his reputation as the dreamiest of the dreamers in Andre Breton's circle ... make[s] him a fascinating figure." Joel sees his influence in Lampblack and Ash (he's right, I think), but he does better than that: he provides a brief and quite precise description of Simone's method in the book: "Muench tends to begin a poem with a vague suggestion of setting or theme, and then piles on gorgeous phrases." This is exactly right, and very much in the French tradition. Desnos may be an immediate influence, but behind him you've got to see the whole Symboliste groove, the shaping of suggestive and connotative fields without a great deal of literal context. This is, I suppose, part of the whole movement toward indeterminacy that's been going on in American poetry for a generation or more, and the presence of a review dealing with these issues in the New York Times can only confirm the thesis that this sort of writing has gone mainstream. I know I spend a fair bit of blog-time grumbling about lousy examples of this sort of writing, but the poems in Lampblack and Ash are always interesting and generally successful poems in an idiom that lends itself to going badly wrong in less skillful hands.

There's an interesting essay to write, someday, about the development of Simone's writing. I was surprised when, a while back, she gave me some poems for Samizdat in her current style, since her first book, The Air Lost in Breathing, was much more literal, solid, and down-to-earth in its anecdotal style. Still, I should have seen the seeds of her new developments in those poems that would take a surreal turn, or break into odd images. (I can't quote from it just now, since some students I sent to do an interview with Simone borrowed my copy). In a way, Simone's development can be seen as typical for our times: from a family-confessional mode toward a kind of symbolist-surrealist influenced poetry of acontextual images. What's anything but typical in her work is the degree of skill with which she's worked in both idioms.

I remember a capacity crowd of students in Lake Forest's Meyer Auditorium eating up the poems from The Air Lost in Breathing a couple of years ago. It was no surprise: Simone said it had been important to her when writing the book that the poems work well for a reader like her sister -- a sort of common reader of the kind described by Virginia Woolf, not a habitué of the poetry demimonde. I remember, too, a reading a few months later, at the much-missed Gallery 312 in Chicago. Simone and I were both on the bill for a crowd that consisted of poets, publishers and others in town for the AWP conference. Simone read from poems that were to become part of Lampblack and Ash, and the demimondain crowd loved it. I wonder, though, how things would have gone had the audiences been reversed. I imagine that the two books appeal, for the most part, to two different audiences, neither of which would allow themselves the pleasures offered by the other book. But I hope I'm wrong.

Sadly, the brief format the Times has turned to for its poetry-roundups (usually 8 books or so in two pages) doesn't allow for a whole lot of analysis, let alone a kind of retrospective look at a poet's work. Still: when the paper of record starts writing about Simone Muench, something's right in the world. I remember why I come to the great gray Ganges in the first place.

Chicago: Open City?

I trekked down to the offices of the Chicago Review the other day, students in tow, and picked up my contributor's copy of the latest issue, in which my big article on James McMichael appears. I'd taken some students from Lake Forest to the Regenstein library, where the incredibly well informed David Pavelich gave them a look at some of the Special Collections holdings of literary magazines — old copies of Big Table, Verse, Poetry, and the Chicago Review, newer journals like the Joel Felix/O'Leary brothers production LVNG, and original correspondence by all kinds of people from the span of a whole century. It was a bit of a surprise for some of the students, I think, when we left the lavish displays at the Regenstein, hoofed it a few blocks over to the Lillie House, and walked up three flights of rickety stairs to the crammed and slightly crummy offices where the Chicago Review is actually edited. I think they were expecting a journal with this kind of history to be housed somewhere a bit more glamorous. But isn't it always the case in the culture industry that lavish offices are a sign of deep decline? I mean, think of the fate of Manchester's Factory Records back in the rave days.

Anyway. For all of its ups and downs over the years, Chicago Review has had a remarkably strong record, especially when you consider how it is edited by graduate students, usually Serious Young Men in Dark Crew-Neck Sweaters (and yeah, the gender-thing is real. I don't think the journal has done too well at putting women in charge of things, but that's another story). Two of the current editors, Josh Kotin and Bobby Baird (who fit the editorial type even unto the dark sweaters) were on hand when I showed up, and were kind enough to hang out with my students, talking about the magazine, its history and its goals, even though it made them late for the Jim Powell reading that evening. One thing that impressed me about Josh's editorial outlook was his insistence on being open to poetry from all traditions. He went into great detail about the editorial process, and clearly has a discerning taste, but he's absolutely adamant about not excluding work from any particular tradition or style. (This accounts, I suppose, for my essay on the neo-classical and therefore very non-mainstream James McMichael sitting almost adjacent to a John Wilkinson piece on language poet Marjorie Welish. There aren't many journals out there willing to take both McMichael and Welish seriously). I was impressed, too, by Josh's commitment to keeping the review open to poets from around the world. There have been good issues on German and Polish poetry in recent years, and Bobby Baird promises to keep the review's interest in British poets going.

I got a bit sentimental about Our Fair City on the way back up to Lake Forest. I mean, aren't Josh and Bobby just continuing the best traditions of Chicago as a literary city? Behind all of the Nelson Algren/Studs Lonigan/Carl Sandburg buzz about grit, there's something more important and more vital, I think: an openness to different traditions of writing and to developments around the world. Harriett Monroe was all about this sort of thing back when Poetry was the best thing going in American letters, and, in a more modest way, it was what I had in mind back in '98 when I started Samizdat. Here's what I thought then, as I looked over the proofs of the first issue and typed up my editorial:

I notice, looking at the present issue, that a map locating the contributors would look a bit like a United Airlines route map: centered on Chicago with lines stretching out to other parts of the country and to points around the world. The centrality of Chicago and environs is, to some degree, a function of the magazine’s location in metro Chicago, but it is also, I think, reflective of the way that the cultural climate of Chicago has fostered poets without pressuring them to conform too closely to the establishment or the counter-establishment. It is in the interstices between orthodoxies that poetry finds innovation and life, and this is why Chicago has become one of the good places for poetry.

Had my thinking followed its usual course the other day, I'd have gotten home, shaken off my sentimentality, and dismissed the idea that there's something about Chicago's literary culture that is somehow condusive to open-mindedness. I mean, are the poets of, say, Boca Raton really closed-minded? Even the formerly rigid Buffalo types are no longer burning candles exclusively at the shrines of the language poets. And the once-provincial people at the Iowa Writer's Workshop seem to have woken up to a world a little bit bigger than the backyard epiphany. But just as I was about to dismiss the idea of Chicago's literary culture as more than usually open, I cracked open my hot-off-the-presses Chicago Review and read this, from a piece by Paul Hoover:

For years, Chicago was a fly-over city. The real world of literature existed on the coasts. Chicago's main poetry event used to be Poetry Day, sponsored by Poetry. In 1972, at the suggestion of Paul Carroll, a few of us, including Lisel Mueller, Mark Perlberg, and Martha Friedberg founded the Poetry Center at the Museum of Contemporary Art. The idea was to bring poets to Chicago to read their work. For the same reason, to leap high enough to connect with what was not local, Maxine [Chernoff] and I published New American Writing, which sponsored a reading series at Links Hall, and served on the board of the Poetry Center. San Francisco comes ready-made. Someone else did the work of building (Kenneth Rexroth, the Duncan and Spicer circles, and so on). Chicago remained to be built.

And what was the young Hoover up to in this as-yet-unmade city? He was listening, it seems, to a thousand voices from a thousand different traditions:

The most important turn in my reading may have come when a classmate dropped Ron Padgett's Great Balls of Fire on a conference table in Adams Hall at UIC....I didn't plunge completely into the New York School, nor did I remain where I was. I'm thankfully still in passage, within and among a number of heavy planets: Deep Image, Surrealism, the English Metaphysicals as well as the American (Dickinson), Williams and Stevens, Cesar Vallejo and Pablo Neruda, Language Poetry, Ashbery and Schuyler, Lorine Niedecker, Thomas Trahearne, Robert Creeley, Zukofsky's "A-14," Elizabeth Bishop, Marianne Moore's "The Fish," and Gwendolyn Brooks' amazing vocalizations and close rhymes...

This is interesting. I mean, had Paul started out in San Francisco, one wonders how different he'd be. New American Writing would have been a more narrowly Duncany-Spicery kind of journal, I think. And what if Paul had first seen that Padgett book in New York? The powerful gravity of the New York School's levity could well have pulled him in, I think, and left the Trahearne and Brooks and Vallejo sides of his poetry less well developed.

Then again, Paul is speaking of the Chicago of several decades ago, and he seems to think the city has become far less of an unmade place. The open frontier has, in his view, has been replaced with a new city, one to which he, from his secret base at Columbia College, carried The Revolution, or at any rate The Revolution of the Word:

For many years, I taught at an open admissions arts and communications college in the South Loop that had a large enrollment of first-generation college students. In Auden's terms [sic] we were throwing the little streets upon the great, and it was working. My poetry students were being accepted into the country's leading MFA programs -- Brown, Bard, Columbia University, University of Iowa, Bennington — and were becoming known in the world (Elaine Equi, Mary Jo Bang). At the same time, the poetry I had supported, a melange of New York School and Language poetry, was coming into its own....By the mid 90s notable poets of the former mainstream like Jorie Graham and Brenda Hillman were being impacted by the new style....Had the little streets defeated the great?

Okay, let's leave aside the howling error of attributing to Auden a line by Yeats. And let's leave aside the begging of that most-begged question of experimental poetry in America, the equation of aesthetic radicalism with left-wing political action. Let's concentrate on the notion of the triumph of a particular aesthetic. In this view, the possibilities of poetry have actually narrowed, with a hybrid of New York School/Language poetry and the "former mainstream" constituting the period style of the new century. This is true, I think, in the case of many poets, and of many journals. And I'm perfectly willing to grant Paul his role in bringing this state of affairs into being. I'm just not at all sure that it is a good thing. Who but an ideologue would willingly see poetic diversity reduced to a kind of monoculture, after all? Or even into the kind of dual-track culture Paul seems to be describing, with the good guys from the little streets, and the watered-down version of the good guys on what's left of the great streets? But there's an enduring tradition of openness in our city, and this saves us from reduction of possibilities inherent in the situation Paul describes as a kind of triumph. This is the tradition of openness — a classical liberalism of the aesthetic — that Josh Kotin is continuing, and the tradition, I should add, that kept Paul from plunging all the way into the New York School, and that made him into the interestingly various poet he has become.

If the unbuilt city of Hoover's youth is gone, along with its cultural-frontier-openness-by-default, we should be glad of institutions that enshrine the ideals of liberality and openness. The Chicago Review remains one of the best such institutions Chicago has to offer.

What Do Poets Want?

Every now and then, the Academy of American Poets sends me a letter asking me to subscribe to their newsletter and receive sundry other benefits in exchange for my contribution. I'm not quite sure why I'm on their mailing list, but several explanations present themselves. They gave me a prize, once, and a poem of mine was published in one of their anthologies. I've also committed other acts that could get me on the list: subscribing to poetry magazines, writing a book of poems, being an English prof, etc. But what interests me here isn't their interest in me (or my money). What I'm interested in is their pitch. Check out the opening paragraphs of their letter, class, and tell me what it is they think I (and any other poet on their list) want and need:

Dear Friend,

Today it gives me great pleasure to invite you to become an Associate Member of the Academy of American Poets.

As Chairman of the Academy, I very much hope you will accept.

In joining us today, you will enter into a new and exciting relationship with the best American poets of today and tomorrow. You will receive public recognition for your role in nurturing the art of poetry. And you will receive a number of material benefits which will bring you closer to the center of the American poetry world.

That's right, class: the "material benefits" are beneath mention at this point. Here, at the start of the pitch, the writers have chosen to concentrate on selling their real products, which are (yeah, you guessed it) BELONGING and ESTEEM, or at the very least the hope/illusion of them. I become something far more esteemed than a subscriber: in exchange for my check I'd become a member (just like the subscribers to National Geographic -- uh, I mean the members of the National Geographic Society). And I'd have a "new relationship" with the best American poets (I suppose the literal truth behind this statement is that I would, in a very minor-league way, be a patron of their art, but the implication seems to be that I'd somehow know them better, maybe even meet a few by a large fireplace in an oak-panelled room where we would sip brandy and discuss Anthony Hecht). Also, I will "receive public recognition for [my] role in nurturing the art of poetry." Woohoo! Will there be a plaque of some kind? Perhaps laurels? I'd like laurels.

As if all this this weren't enough, I will be brought "closer to the center of the American poetry world." Ah, at last! I will be loved! Valued! Picked out of the common mob and taken to...to...to where, exactly? I mean, what center? The Iowa Writer's Program? The SUNY-Buffalo English Department? St. Mark's in the Bowery? The 92nd Street Y? The Poetry Center of Chicago? The Kelly Writer's House? Helen Vendler's doorstep? John Ashbery's loft? John Ashbery's pharmacist? Or, in some weird real-life version of the Commodore Vic-20 era movie Tron, will I be transported physically onto the internet and placed inside Mark Scroggins' blog? Wherever it is, I'm sure the inhabitants (with tweeds or with pierced tongues, with sherry or rare B-sides by The Fugs) will see, accept, value and love me. At last, at last, at last...

By the way: the Academy of American Poets is a fine organization, and I support their outreach efforts and their desire to do some good for poetry. I'd really support any effort on their part to give me a grant. That's the kind of "public recognition of [my] role in nurturing the art of poetry" I could get down with.

Piotr Gwiazda Knows How It Feels to Live Here Now

At times I can barely understand myself,
living in the place called Brainwash.

My visitors talk to me in headlines
I reply with absurd proverbs.

(from Piotr Gwiazda's "Four Autobiographies," a poem in his new book Gagarin Street, which arrived in the mail about fifteen minutes ago).

The poem is about being an immigrant to America, but I think many of us, at this time when political strain and propaganda has distorted language,know what Gwiazda means. I remember an old comment of W.H. Auden's about feeling caught between the language of agitprop (that's agitation and propaganda, for those of you not immersed in the culture of the 1930s) and Mallarme. I remember, too, that old saw about Language poetry coming into being in response to the corruption of public discourse following Vietnam. Lately, I suppose, everything feels like a headline, and every headline feels like a lie. How to talk back? More headlines? A set of rah-rah propagandistic tropes of our own to counter (if only for a few) the angry spew of Fox News? Or something subtle, something that, with its recognition of nuance, irony, and difficulty, seems cryptic and odd, and destined to survive nowhere but in the valley of its own making. Gwiazda sees the problem. I can't wait to finish the book.

The Fringes of the MSA and the Axis of Ambition

"The border wars define the pallid center of the empire," writes Chris Hamilton-Emery in the latest PN Review. He's thinking about Salt, the upstart-turned-success-story of poetry publishing in Britain (and -- full disclosure -- my publisher), but his comment came to mind the other day down in Chicago, where the Modernist Studies Association held its annual conference at the Michigan Avenue Marriott. I bailed on attending the conference itself this year, but that didn't stop me from catching the Metra down to Michigan Avenue, meeting a poet, a critic, and a poet-critic or two and heading out for the kind of venue where all the real action happens at any conference: a nearby bar. I've always thought that the real exchanges at these places define the success or failure of any conference. I mean, I've enjoyed going to the 20th Century Literature Conference in Louisville for years, but I've learned more from talking until closing time at the bars on Bardstown Road and the jazz lounge in the Seelbach Hotel than I have from any of the panels. Except perhaps for the panel where Charles Altieri blew me away by saying, of the presentation I'd just given, "I find your paper irritating, but I didn't think anything else here was interesting enough to be irritating." But that's another story.

So I got together with Piotr Gwiazda (whose Gagarin Street is just out), Stephen Burt (whose Parallel Play is about to come out), and Matt Hofer (who just finished writing his Distance and Resistance: Modernist Polemic in American Poetries) and we talked poetry and drank Goose Island in some crummy dive until we split up, Matt and Steve hitting the big party at Walter Benn Michaels' place while Piotr and I kept talking up and down Michigan Ave.

Two items emerging from the Archambeau-Burt-Hofer-Gwiazda discourses:

1. The Axis of Ambition.

I brought the crew up to speed on the the ongoing blog saga of how-to-anatomize-contemporary-poetry, and they all proposed third axes to help make David Kellogg's model more useful. Steve's was, I think, the most useful: ambition. In addition to charting poetry in terms of the claims made for it as innovative/traditional or communitarian/individual, Steve proposed an axis that would chart the way the poems were seen in terms of the scale of their ambition. I suppose one would have to see the binary here as major/minor. I like the retro, even archaic, quality of the scale, and I like in particular the way thinking of this kind forces us to be evaluative critics, (and, with any luck, to get a bit reflexive about the criteria of evaluation, too).

2. Donald Davie, Poetry Critic or Poet-Critic.

Since the discussion had touched on classification and evaluation, and since I found myself at a table with three people who'd read all of Donald Davie's work -- a position I don't occupy every week -- I took a straw poll on how we should classify and evaluate Donald Davie's acheivement. Two votes went for "poet-critic," one for "scholar" and one for "man of letters" (yeah, that was me). Curiously, though, when we each named our favorite Davie book, all were books of criticism (one each for Ezra Pound: Poet as Sculptor, Ezra Pound, and two votes for Articulate Energy). So whatever we want to call him, Davie seems to be most valued as a critic. (Incidentally, only two of us had favorite books of Davie's poetry -- Six Epistles for Eva Hess was mine, The Shires was Steve's).

We never quite got to the question of where we'd put a guy like Davie on the modified Kellogg grid. I suppose I'd have to put him more toward the community end of the community-individual axis, because of all the Little Englandism in Thomas Hardy and British Poetry. As a poet and critic with Thomas Hardy over one shoulder and Ezra Pound over the other, Davie covers a lot of territory on the tradition-innovation axis. As for ambition -- harder to say. As a critic he did big things, but never wrote a book that tried to totalize (no The Pound Era or American Renaissance). As a poet, he ranged over a wide terrain, but didn't write a single Big Poem of the kind that signaled ambition for Modernists and midcentury New American Poets. He had just enough Larkin in is soul to keep him from that. So I'd have to scratch my head and, somewhat surprised, put him somewhere around the middle of the axis of ambition.

Silliman Recants! Avant/Quietude Dichotomy Dies!

Though I've never posted twice in one day before, I've got to leap in with this late-breaking newsflash: Ron Silliman has recanted.

Surrounded by reporters and nearly blinded by the flashbulb-popping paparazzi, Silliman stood on the front doorstep of his home Saturday and read a brief statement:

In the process of writing these notes, day after day, I've learned far more than I could possibly have imagined when I first embarked on this process. The most obvious example would be that I had to give up my 1970s-centric map of the poetic landscape & replace it with one more appropriate to the 21st century.

Okay, the bit about the paparazzi and whatnot is just scene-setting, but the statement itself is real. No, really — check it out.

So the Avant/Quietude distinction is, quite possibly, dead (though we'll have to wait to see if it lives on in some hideous afterlife on syllabi and in academic articles). Now what? I wait by the poetic tickertape with bated breath...

For a suddenly dated discussion of these issues, see the post below. (Note that, in the new climate of glasnost, the younger generation may come to see Silliman as a kind of Gorbachev, not the Brezhnev he seemed to have become).