The Poem As Process

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DAVID SWANG6R
University of California, Santa Cruz
HARCOURT BRACE JOVANOVICH, INC.

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arc music corp. for "Rock and Roll Music" by Chuck Berry. © 1957 Arc Music Corp.
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Inc., from The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke. For "The Empress No. 5"
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Carver, from Kayak #27. Copyright 1971 by Kayak. For "Prelude, Responsibilities,
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS vi
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© 1963. For "In a Station at the Metro," "A Virginal," from Personae by Ezra
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PREFACE
The assumption underlying The Poem as Process is that

poetry as art is not something that generates "right" an-
swers, because it is not a form of discourse that makes
assertions. On the contrary, poetry evokes rather than asserts,
and its range of evocation is certainly beyond the control of the
English instructor; indeed, it is often beyond the control of
the poet. A poem is not a static object; it is a dynamic form.
Books that presume to tell the reader the meaning of a poem,
or how to understand a poem, assume a meaning, an under-
standing. But a poem can have many meanings, to which the
same reader can respond differently at different times.
Some modern aestheticians (psychologists and philosophers
of art) have been sensitive to the integrity of poetry as an
art form. In a tradition begun by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
aestheticians like I. A. Richards, Monroe Beardsley, Kenneth
Burke, and Susanne Langer have attempted to understand
poetry as a dynamic form. Instead of taking poetic devices
(like meter or diction) as their starting point, these aes-
theticians have asked basic questions about the function of
language in poetry: If poetry, like other discourse, uses words,
what then makes it poetry? They have probed the question of
meaning in poetry not by classifying poems, but by studying
responses to poetry. What is it that poetry does to and with
the person who reads or hears it? Two major conclusions
emerge, and it is on these that this book is largely based:
(1) The way language is used in poetry (how poetry
"means") makes particular demands on the reader; it requires
him or her to be, in a sense, co-poet, creating the poem anew
as he responds to it.
(2) The way poetry makes meaning is more closely akin to
—
painting or music than to other discourse that is, although
poetry uses the materials of discourse (words), its meaning
is produced by evocation in ways that are similar to the mean-
ings created by the nonverbal arts.
A third conclusion, noted by many poets, is important to
this book: a poem is never finished, although it may be
abandoned. As this is true for the working poet, so it is for the
reader as he seeks to know a poem. The reader can never know
or understand a poem finally; if he has the resources and
energy, he can return again and again to the poem, each time
ix
PREFACE X
to know it somewhat differently. The poem is a dynamic form

for both the poet and his reader, who can no more think he
has "done" Shakespeare's "Sonnet 129," Wordsworth's Lyrical
Ballads, or Frost's "Death of a Hired Man" than he can have
"done" Mahler's Fourth Symphony or Picasso's Guernica.
In this regard, a single poem is a continuing performance, a
concert to which we can listen at will.
The content and organization of this book follow from
these conclusions. The Poem as Process stresses the activity
and process common to the reader and the poet. Moreover, it
approaches the study of poetry from the vantage point of the
aesthetician instead of the literary critic. Finally, the book is
concerned with the sharing of poetry. By "sharing" I mean to
suggest a variety of activities including, but not limited to, the
teaching of poetry. Every conversation about a poem is a
sharing; giving someone a book of poetry as a gift is a sharing;
teaching, at its best, is a ritualized form of sharing. This book
itself isa way of sharing poems and the concerns of poetry.
It is therefore not directed solely at the teacher and his stu-
dents, but at anyone interested in poetry, whether in the class-
room or elsewhere.
The book is organized into chapters primarily for the sake
of convenience, not because I believe that the various activities
poetry inspires are distinct and separate. In fact, they overlap
considerably. However, the chapters are designed as a series
of activities and discussions that grow in implication: if the
progression works, each chapter will not so much answer
questions as lead to new ones. The chapters are open-ended
and are not meant to provide hard-and-fast rules for respond-
ing to poetry. They should, however, provide the reader with
at least one man's view of the poetic endeavor.
—
Preceding each chapter is a "Reconnaissance" section the
term describes an exploratory journey, a kind of scouting mis-
sion. The Reconnaissance sections propose activities for the
— —
reader that will enable him experientially, by doing to form
a perspective on the problem to be discussed in the ensuing
chapter. It is my hope that each Reconnaissance will help the
reader to generate his own questions, independent of the
chapter that follows. Implicit in the Reconnaissance is the
value of "doing" as a way of "knowing," particularly as a way
of learning what it is we need to know. There are no exercise
questions or testing mechanisms in the book, for in my view
these devices are stifling rather than stimulating.
My greatest hope for this book is that it will encourage
the reader to immerse himself in those activities crucial to
XI PREFACE
poetry: making poems, developing a poetic, responding to

poems, and sharing responses. One of my intentions, para-
doxically, is to eliminate the middleman, the teacher or critic
who too often stands between the reader and poetic activity,
buffering that activity with a predesigned teaching strategy or
a preformulated critical analysis. To this end I have added a
small collection of poems without commentary. My hope is that
the reader will move from these works to a larger field and find
poetry on his own.
This book owes much to two Harcourt Brace Jovanovich
editors: Merton Rapp, who encouraged my work on it from
the beginning, and Sid Zimmerman, who offered sound criti-
cism as it neared completion. I would also like to thank
Brewster Ghiselin, University of Utah; Marie Ohlsen, California
State University at Los Angeles; and Thomas R. Steiner, Uni-
versity of California at Santa Barbara, for their helpful sugges-
tions on the text.
The Poem as Process is for Lynn, Ana, and Elissa.
DAVID SWANGER
:
CONTENTS
PREFACE ix
RECONNAISSANCE 1 1
I MAKING A POEM 2
RECONNAISSANCE 2 26
II SHAPING A POETIC 27
RECONNAISSANCE 3 60
III THE DILEMMA OF RESPONSE 62
RECONNAISSANCE 4 96
IV INTEGRATING PRINCIPLES 98
RECONNAISSANCE 5 127
V NEW USES FOR A POETIC

ROCK LYRICS AND
FOUND POETRY 130
RECONNAISSANCE 6 163
VI SHARING POETRY 164
MORE POEMS 185
My Parents Kept Me from Children

Who Were Rough 187
STEPHEN SPENDER
The Bat Is Dun 187
EMILY DICKINSON
We Wear the Mask 188
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
xiii
CONTENTS XIV
Leda and the Swan 188

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock 189
T. S. ELIOT
Sonnet 73 192
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
On His Blindness 193
JOHN MILTON
My Papa's Waltz 193
THEODORE ROETHKE
I Know a Man 194
ROBERT CREELEY
Dover Beach 195
MATTHEW ARNOLD
Body Mechanics 196
ALBERT GOLDBARTH
To His Coy Mistress 196
ANDREW MARVELL
Buffalo Bill's Defunct 198
E. E. CUMMINGS
London 198
WILLIAM BLAKE
Waking in the Blue 199
ROBERT LOWELL
To a Louse, on Seeing One on a
Lady's Bonnet at Church 200
ROBERT BURNS
A Virginal 202
EZRA POUND
Game After Supper 202
MARGARET ATWOOD
Lully, Lulley 203
ANONYMOUS
Dulce et Decorum Est 204
WILFRED OWEN
Ulysses on the Virtues of Order 205
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The Rising of the Buffalo Men 206
OSAGE INDIAN SONG
XV CONTENTS
Never Seek to Tell Thy Love 207

WILLIAM BLAKE
Uncle Dog: The Poet at 9 207
ROBERT SWARD
The Purse-Seine 208
PAUL BLACKBURN
The Sun Rising 210
JOHN DONNE
Journey of the Magi 211
T. S. ELIOT
The Groundhog 212

RICHARD EBERHART
The World Is Too Much with Us 214
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Sonnet 116 214
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Leave Me, O Love 215
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
Sonnet 54 215
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Rain 216
ADRIAN KEITH SMITH
The Most of It 216
ROBERT FROST
The Pawnbroker 217
MAXINE KUMIN
Kubla Khan 218
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
The Whipping 220
ROBERT HAYDEN
Higher Economics 221
DAVID SWANGER
Peter Quince at the Clavier 221
WALLACE STEVENS
The Empress 223
DIANE WAKOSKI
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note 224
LEROI JONES/IMAMU AMIRI BARAKA
CONTENTS XVI
In Memory of W. B. Yeats 225

W. H. AUDEN
Fern Hill 227
DYLAN THOMAS
The Sound of Silence 229
PAUL SIMON
Hap 230
THOMAS HARDY
Spitting on Ira Rosenblatt 230
ROBERT HERSHON
Go, Lovely Rose 231
EDMUND WALLER
Falling 232
JAMES DICKEY
This Is Just to Say 240
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
O Mistress Mine 240
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Letter Written on a Ferry Crossing Long Island Sound 241
ANNE SEXTON
The Windhover 243
GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
The Jewel 244
JAMES WRIGHT
Award 244
RAY DUREM
Snake 245
D. H. LAWRENCE
Parents 247
JULIUS LESTER
The Eagle 249
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
The Labors of Thor 249
DAVID WAGONER
Index of Poets, Titles, and First Lines 253
RECONNAISSANCE
Write a poem of any length, in any style, about anything. After

you have "finished" the poem, think back over the way you
got started on it, the difficulties you faced as you wrote it, the
kinds of decisions you made as you gave the poem its defini-
tion. Write a "process account" of the making of your poem
(refer back to earlier drafts in the progress of the poem).
There is no need at this point to assess whether the poem
is good or bad, or what its faults may be. The important thing
is that you make a poem and consider what is involved in
doing so.
I
MAKING A POEM
Most of my readers will have observed a small water-

insect on the surface of rivulets, which throws a cinque-
spotted shadow fringed with prismatic colours on the
sunny bottom of the brook; and will have noticed, how
the little animal wins its way up against the stream, by
alternate pulses of active and passive motion, now resist-
ing the current, and now yielding to it in order to gather
strength and a momentary fulcrum for a further propul-
sion. This is no unapt emblem of the mind's self-expe-
rience in the act of thinking.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

Biographia Literaria
As went along, thinking of nothing in particular, only

I
looking at things around me and following the progress
of the seasons, there would flow into my mind, with
sudden and unaccountable emotion, sometimes a line or
two of verse, sometimes a whole stanza at once, accom-
panied, not preceded, by a vague notion of the poem
which they were destined to form part of. .Then there
. .
would usually be a lull of an hour or so, then perhaps the

spring would bubble up again.
HOUSMAN,
A. E.
The Name and the Nature of

Poetry
Do not save time, but lose it.
JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU,

Emile
3 MAKING A POEM
In the spring of 1972, when the United States launched its

unprecedented massive bombing of North Vietnam, I read an
item in the paper about "free-fire zones." The reporter ex-
plained that a free-fire zone was any place the military
declared it had the right to kill everything. By designating an
area a free-fire zone, the generals issued an unrestricted hunt-
ing license; concurrently, a warning was issued to the populace
of that area that they were licensed to be killed.
The brutality of the Vietnam war was no longer news;
advocates and opponents alike of United States policy had
long since been confronted in the news media by the victims of
My Lai. But for some reason the existence of free-fire zones
worked itself into my consciousness the way a splinter can
burrow increasingly deeper into the skin. I realized I would
have to attempt a poem about the free-fire zone. I was not
pleased by the prospect because it is very difficult to write a
political poem—not just for ad hoc poets like me, but even for
expert practitioners.
My problem was to find a core metaphor for the
first
poem. Here use the term metaphor broadly rather than
I
technically, to mean an unexpected combination of ideas or

images, an incongruent alliance that nonetheless works and
produces a whole that is conceptually different and more
meaningful than either of the parts. I searched for what
Coleridge conceived of as a poetic idea, since poetry must be
more than "translations of prose thoughts into poetic lan-
guage." The idea behind the poem what — I call its core
—
metaphor had of itself to be poetic.
Finally, after virtually an hour of staring alternately out
the window and at the pale glow of the page in my typewriter,
my thoughts settled on the idea of license. "License to kill" is
already a metaphor, albeit a tired one. I decided to blend this
old metaphor with the idea of licenses in general, nonlethal
ones like licenses to drive cars, own dogs, remodel homes
the kinds of licenses that every day cross the desks of civil
servants into the hands of ordinary citizens. In the poem the
generals themselves would be the civil servants, the license-
issuers.
had long been impressed by television appearances of
I
politicaland military leaders; they are so respectable-looking
and articulate. I had my core metaphor. The license to kill
would be issued under the most urbane conditions, a business
MAKING A POEM 4
transaction between civilized men. I had no trouble, now,

beginning the poem.
LICENSE
Go along the corridor and do not be afraid
of the doors' eyes which watch you;
they are opaque, blurred as cataracts;
no one will see you enter or leave.
I'll be behind the third door studying
the gold letters which appear backwards

from the inside; peeling
at their edges, they say, "Licenses."
I am not as you imagined, I know: smaller,

older, looking benign as a senior partner;
you are surprised I chew Ex-Lax and smell
—
faintly like your grandparents minty, clean.
I likedwhat I had achieved with the doors inside office

buildings, and I was pleased with the effect of an older man
who wears cologne and chews mints. But where to go with it?
I saw that these lines hinted at the surreptitious quality of the
transaction, that despite the familiarity of the setting and the

benign license-issuer, there was a Faustian, pact-with-the-devil
suggestion. The recipient of the license was apprehensive.
Then something I had read several months ago, but had
hitherto not thought about, surfaced and became the image of
the next stanza. It was an account of birds at a feeder, the
point of which was that the charming scene of birds darting
in and out of the bonanza of seeds was actually fraught with
terror, as though the birds expected at any moment to meet
their doom. Thus the license-issuer would describe his client:
I understand the delicacy of your mission:

you are like a bird at a feeder,
terrified of consequences yet lured
beyond judgment by the unnatural feast.
From this, the next stanza flowed wih relative ease:
Calm yourself. This dull wood, these curls

of dust, my green lampshade are all here
to give assurance, as are the frail
diplomas inked in Latin.
5 MAKING A POEM
Later I changed "This dull wood" to "the wood's patina," and

replaced "these curls of dust" (an image I had already used in
a poem) with "the corpulent books" but otherwise, I was —
satisfied with the stanza. I now had five stanzas:

I'llbe behind the third door studying


—

Calm yourself: the wood's patina, the corpulent
books, my green lampshade are all here
to give assurance, as are the frail
diplomas inked in Latin.
My work up to this point had been joyous, despite my

being at it for over an hour. Like Coleridge's water bug, I had
won my way against the stream with a pulse of activity. But
I was now at the crucial juncture of poem and faced its
the
most difficult task. The actual business transaction issuing —
the license —must take place.
The expression "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours"
came to mind, and I made a start on the next stanza:
Our business is as simple as scratching . .
which I then altered and expanded to
I can see that God, as you say,

is with you; your credit is good
. .
MAKING A POEM 6
and you're in real estate; this deal

is as easy as scratching your ear.
But this was wrong. It was too explicit; the use of God was
too easy; the stanza wasn't evocative, power it didn't have the
to gobeyond itself. Whereas my activity had been satisfying, it
now became panicked: What if I couldn't finish the poem? I
searched for ideas and images. I thought again of the television
appearances of the generals and tried a variety of lines:
We've no bright lights nor cameras

here; this is not a public . .
Tailored men sign agreements like these

between trips to the barber, and walk away
glistening like foil: the nation is told
and visits their homes with television cameras
You are well tailored; your cheek

is taut as . .
Tailored men sign agreements

like these between trips to the barber;
they walk away glistening like foil
and the nation televises their families
Then, I tried similarly futile efforts using highway and automo-

tive imagery that came from I don't know where:
Well-tailored men often sign agreements

like these: the profits will be relentless;
you will be as a man who lives on a gold highway
where power throbs
Well-tailored men often sign agreements
like these, and their profits
are relentless as trucks on a highway,
a throbbing power of steel pistons.
Real estate, profits, the industrial pulse of highways none of —

it seemed right. These stanzas also were too explicit, almost
satirical in their play on tailors, barber shops, television, gold-

lined highways.
7 MAKING A POEM
Although I didn't consciously know it, I had now to heed

Rousseau's advice and "lose time." Or, like Housman, to allow
a lull so that the original source of inspiration might again
bubble up. It was imperative that I put the poem out of my
mind for a while; I was trying too hard.
I ended up watching a forgettable television program for
two hours. Then I returned to the typewriter.

"Eureka!" is an expression that evokes a caricature of the
inventor with a light bulb over his head; but eureka is what
happened. Staring at what I had written, I suddenly could see
a license, complete with the dotted line on which one signs his
name. The dotted line looked like a trail of blackened blood on
snow. The concluding stanza of the poem emerged as if of its
own intelligence. The mechanistic pistons suddenly made sense
as did the tailored men; these would be combined with the
violence of the hunter and his blooded prey:
We are well-tailored men, but hunters also;

sign where the line breaks like a rabbit's spoor
in the snow: blood explodes and drives the pistons:
Done! It is a plain license and will serve.
After some minor changes, the poem was mine.
LICENSE
I'll be behind the third door studying


10
—

IAKING A POEM 8
Calm yourself: the wood's patina,

the corpulent books, my green lampshade
are all here to give assurance
as are the frail diplomas inked in Latin. 20
We are tailored men but hunters also:

sign where the line breaks like rabbit spoor
in thesnow; blood explodes and drives the pistons.
Done. It is a plain license and will serve.
It is not finished, in the sense of "final" or "complete" or

"ended"; but the poem is crafted to a point beyond which I
don't feel I can go, at least for the time being. This is not to
say I am satisfied with the poem; on the contrary, it ultimately
fails. It does not convey the bitter shock I felt in learning about
the use of free-fire zones specifically, nor my hatred of the war

in which they were invented. The poem is abandoned rather
—
than finished but one can abandon a poem for a variety of
reasons. This poem and I have reached an understanding: it
goes to my limits, and I know approximately what it can do.
Several questions about writing poems emerge from the
making of "License." First, I wonder if my experience is
typical. Are there common elements in the genesis of poems
written by different poets? Are there common elements to
creativity generally, whether the "product" is a poem or a
steam engine? If there is some broad similarity in the way
different poets create, what bearing do actual accounts of the
making of poems have on assumptions and stereotypes about
poets and poems? Finally, what of the person who will hear
or read the poem? How does he enter into the consciousness
of the poet at work on a poem?
Not many poets have written detailed accounts of their
work on poems. Usually it is the critic or biographer who
comes along later, meticulously pieces together the scattered
fragments of a complicated life, and attempts to tell us how
works came into being. For the most part, the poets them-
selves have remained silent about how they work. Or their
remarks about their poetry have been pronouncements rather
than descriptions (for example, Wordsworth's "Poetry takes its
origins from emotion recollected in tranquility"), which give
only a general and often misleading impression.
There is nothing unethical about the poet's reluctance to
9 MAKING A POEM
describe his work. He is not like the auto mechanic who keeps
his method of adjusting the brakes a secret in order to protect
his quota of brake jobs. Many poets don't wish to discuss the
details of their work because they feel these are private, even
sacred; after all, it's the poem itself that counts.
It is, without doubt, the poem itself that finally matters
most. But the poem is no more divorced from its making than
it is from apprehension by the reader. The conventional
its
separation between criticizing and making poems can be seen

in the way poetry is taught in schools and colleges: creative
writing (where people at least try to talk about the process of
making) is divorced from and often subordinated to the other
offerings of the English department. The separation is thus
—
institutionalized as if making poems had nothing to do with
studying them, and vice versa. When I was a graduate student,
Robert Lowell would come to the campus each autumn to offer
two seminars, one on creative writing and the other on
criticism. The courses were listed in separate divisions in the
catalogue and no one had the temerity to suggest that perhaps
making and analyzing poems were not unalterably separate
activities.
Those poets who have described the making of their poems
confirm my experience of a pattern of initial inspiration and
flurry of writing, frustration and enforced idleness, fresh return
to the task and its resolution. (Incidentally, the resolution may
not be a poem that the poet even keeps; the matter can also
be resolved by tearing up the draft and vowing never to at-
tempt that poem again.) All accounts of writing poems attest
to the veracity of Coleridge's water bug as a metaphor for
the pulse-and-stay of themind as it creates.
down stanzas that suddenly flowed into his
After writing
mind, A. E. Housman could only wait and hope "that further
inspiration might be forthcoming." And ending the poem seems
to be more difficult than beginning it, as Housman recounts:
I happen to remember distinctly the genesis of the piece
which stands last in my first volume. Two of the stanzas,

I do not say which, came into my head, just as they are
printed, while I was crossing the corner of Hampstead

Heath between the Spaniard's Inn and the footpath to
Temple Fortune. A third stanza came with a little coaxing
MAKING A POEM 10
after tea.One more was needed, but it did not come; I

had turn and compose it myself, and that was a
to
laborious business. I wrote it thirteen times, and it was
more than a twelve-month before I got it right. 1
Jean Cocteau once called inspiration "the result of profound

indolence." I am convinced that he is right, however counter
to our cultural mores it may be to value doing nothing. Prob-
ably one can never do nothing. Something is always happening
inside. But we can certainly do too much, especially when
working on a poem, just as I felt I was trying too hard with
the last stanza of "License."
Melville Cane, a notable exception to the rule that poets
don't discusshow they write, takes some pains to outline the
"slow germination" of a number of his poems:
One becomes involved with poems that insist on being

written eventually. It may take a long time, even years,
before one finally surrenders and becomes victorious
through the surrender. There are many causes for this
obstinacy, but perhaps the most common cause is that
the original impulse though recognized lies too deep in
the unconscious to be dredged up. One has the feeling
that though the climate is right the time
not yet ripe;is
one lacks that involvement with the material which will

either evoke an intuitive kindling hint or lift a definite
theme to consciousness.
The condition is one of slow, delayed immersion. 2
The pattern extends to creators other than poets, as we

learn from Henri Poincare's biography of a mathematical dis-
covery. First, working on Fuchsian functions, Poincare tells
how ideas suddenly "rose in crowds" and he made a discovery.
But it was later, on a journey during which "the incidents of
the travel forget my mathematical work," that "the
made me
idea came me, without anything in my former thoughts
to
seeming to have paved the way for it, that the transformations
1
"The Name and the Nature of Poetry," in Brewster Ghiselin, ed., The Creative
Process: A Symposium (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press,
1954), pp. 49-50.
2Making a Poem—An Inquiry into the Creative Process (New York: Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich, 1953), p. 49.
11 MAKING A POEM
I had used to define the Fuchsian functions were identical

with those of non-Euclidian geometry." 3
Bertrand Russell, half a century later, was also to describe
"the fruitless effort" he expended in trying to push for solu-
tions in mathematics, solutions that could only come of their
"own subconscious development." And Darwin recorded in his
autobiography that his theory of evolution came to him, after
many years of struggle with it, while he was riding one day in
his carriage.
There are many accounts of scientific creation (the scien-
tistbeing less reluctant than the poet to chronicle the way he
works) that show that creative work in the sciences proceeds
much like creative work in the arts: it may be that art and
science are not so antithetical as they are often portrayed, are
not warring visions of the world.
A three-stage creative process —surge, dormancy, and reso-
lution —characterizes most Of particular in-
creative activity.
terest to me is the dormancy period, for that is the "make-or-
break" point not only in my own work, but for my students
and colleagues also.
I once heard the poet defined as someone who is always
between jobs. The statement referred to the long intervals

in a poet's life when he may not write, when he is waiting for
inspiration for the next poem. It seems to me that "between
jobs" describes the poet's life even while he works on one
poem. He, and all of us, must learn to wait through that
frustrating time about which we can really do nothing, while
the poem in a sense resolves itself. But what is commonly
—
called "writer's block" is not that at all there is no barricade,
no stoppage of the mind's traffic. The traffic has simply gone
underground, to the unconscious. "Writer's block" might more
appropriately be called the "creative pause" inherent in the
making of art. Things are happening; we must have faith to let
them happen.
The stereotype of the poet as a person divinely inspired,
who writes in trembling ecstasy, is misleading. We all are
familiar with the image of the ethereal, passionate poet, the
poet who has, as Dryden says, "a faculty wild and lawless."
Perhaps the history of literature is indeed racier for its atten-
3
Henri Poincare, in Jacques Hadamard, Psychology of Invention in the Mathematical
Field (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949), pp. 13-14.
MAKING A POEM 12
tion to the volatile behavior of the Romantics Byron and

and Dylan Thomas, and to
Shelley, to the vices of Coleridge
the idiosyncracies of Ezra Pound and Robert Frost. Only in
passing is it noted that Wallace Stevens led a sober life as
an insurance executive, that T. S. Eliot was a businessman,
and that William Carlos Williams maintained a successful
medical practice all his working life. The poet is not neces-
sarily either a tormented outcast of society nor a sturdy
—
executive but the nature of the creative process necessitates
that he be a hard and careful worker. The poet does not get
a free ride on the wings of imagination.
Once the energy of initial inspiration has expended itself,
—
there is a lot of plain hard work selection and revision. Asked
by the interviewer, "Do you revise a very great deal?" Robert
Lowell's response was, "Endlessly." He goes on to say:
It'ssuch a miracle if you get lines that are halfway right;

it'snot just a technical problem. The lines must mean a
good deal to you. All your poems are in a sense one poem,
and there's always the struggle of getting something that
balances and comes out right, in which all parts are good,
and that has experience you value. 4
And even a poet like Allen Ginsberg, who for many people
epitomizes the stereotype of the "wild man," describes his
work as "step by step, word by word and adjective by adjec-
tive." And there is the comment by Kingsley Amis on hard
work:
To have worked on a poem a lot says nothing about its

final merit,but poets are likely not to feel that. "It may
not be much good but at least it wasn't easy" is a natural
reaction against romantic inspirational attitudes. Regard-
ing poetry as hard work, though perhaps dangerous,
strikes me as less dangerous than feeling it ought to
possess or obsess one, etc. But don't take my word for it.
5
We often think of the scientist as epitomizing the meticu-

lous worker, but not the poet; yet Coleridge, in the Biographia
4
George Plimpton, ed., Writers at Work. The Paris Review Interviews, 2nd ser., vol. 2
(London: Seeker & Warburg, 1963), pp. 349-50.
6
Paul Engle and Joseph Langland, eds., Poet's Choice (Boston: Little, Brown, 1962),
p. 196.
13 MAKING A POEM
Literaria, asserts that poetry has a logic of its own as strict

and the poet-scientist comparison
as that of science; is raised
again by Marianne Moore:
Do work analogously? Both are

the poet and scientist not
To be hard on himself is one of
willing to waste effort.
the main strengths of each. Each is attentive to clues,
each must narrow the choice, must strive for precision.
As George Grosz says, "In art there is no place for gossip
and but a small place for the satirist." The objective is a
6
fertile procedure. Is it not?
The precision of the scientist and the passion of the poet are
not usually conceived of as allies. Yet, as we have seen, emotion
may impel early work on a poem only to be later combined
with the goal of precision which guides every choice of noun,
verb, and adjective that the poet makes.
But how do we know when a poem achieves precision?
We can say that a poem achieves precision when it elicits the
desired range of responses from the reader. Precision in poetry
links the poet to the reader and consists in the effect a word,
a line, a stanza, the entire poem, will have. The poet makes
choices on the basis of how he thinks or senses the reader will
react to one thing over another.
The poet gauges his reader's response on the basis of a
shared language and culture. Both the reader and the poet are
to some extent members same community, and to that
of the
extent can be presumedhave similar reactions to words,
to
phrases, and, possibly, allusions. Of course the notion of com-
munity is a complex one, and each of us is in fact a member
of several communities simultaneously. But for our purpose
it is sufficient to note that a linguistic culture forms the matrix
within which the poetic endeavor takes place, enabling the

poet to estimate with some precision the effect his work will
have on his readers.
There are two counterarguments to this notion of precision
in poetry. The first is that precision lies in objective form
rather than in gauging response and working for a particular
response. Frost's celebrated remark that writing poetry with-
out meter is like playing tennis without a net is pertinent here,
6 Plimpton, Writers at Work, vol. 2, p. 86.

MAKING A POEM 14
as is Dryden's somewhat lengthier endorsement of the virtues

of rhyme in poetry:
The great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too

luxuriant; he is tempted to say many things which might
better be omitted, or at least shut up in fewer words; but

when the difficulty of artful rhyming is interposed, where
the poet commonly confines his sense to his couplet, and
must contrive that sense into such words, that the rhyme
shall naturally follow them, not they the rhyme; the fancy
then gives leisure to the judgment to come in, which
seeing so heavy a tax imposed, is ready to cut off all un-
necessary expenses. 7
The best answer to these arguments is simple fact. Very

good poets are playing very good tennis without the net; even
without the tax of rhyme, poetic economy has not become
inflated. Shakespeare alone refutes Dryden's contention that
blank verse is "too luxuriant." Virtually every modern poet
stands in opposition to Frost. This is not to say that poets
—
write without form form is there. Consider e. e. cummings'
"in Just-."
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful 10
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
7
John Dryden, in Ghiselin, The Creative Process, p. 78.
15 MAKING A POEM
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed 20
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
The poem is not anarchic; its form is carefully worked out.

Every line, every word is carefully placed. Even the spaces
between words are carefully thought out. Yet form follows
function rather than existing for its own sake. Form is but one
of the elements with which the poet works to achieve precision.
The precision itself, defined as the poet's accuracy in getting
the effect he desires, has form as a necessary but not a
sufficient component.
The second argument asserts that in the act of creation
the poet does not calculate how people will respond to his
poem. This argument is part of the romantic myth of the poet.
Again he is seen as a soul writing in ecstatic frenzy, aloof from
the opinions of others, worlds apart from the manufacturer of
a new vacuum cleaner who must ask himself whether his
product will sell. Yet it does not diminish the poet to discover
that he takes into account those who will read or hear his
poems, any more than it diminishes the violin virtuoso to say
that he cares about concert hall acoustics. As Melville Cane
says, "The act of creation is twofold":
... [It is] an offering and a response, the poet can-

not be satisfied with merely pleasing himself. If that
were all, he would not need to be understood by anyone
but himself; he could indulge his fancies at will for his
purely private consumption. The poet fails when he fails
to communicate. 8
The myth of the poet's distance from the public dies hard.
Recently, we have this self-description by Sylvia Ashton-
8 Making a Poem, p. 25.

—
MAKING A POEM 16
Warner: "Maybe they've made a mistake in summoning me,

invitingan alien to them. Alien. There's the word. I should
reel from it but I don't. I don't dislike being an alien. An artist
must be an alien in life. Art must walk alone, a pariah of the
human family." 9
Not so: The artist by definition cannot walk alone he —

walks in a parade with his fellow men.
The myth must be discarded in face of the reality of the
creative act: that act does not exist in a vacuum, the poet does
not speak into a void. The poet must listen for echoes and
reverberations as he writes. This is not simply a matter of
whether the product will sell; it is a matter of the poem's
success or failure as a poem. T. S. Eliot, whose poetry is hardly
an effort to cater to popular taste, nonetheless feels strongly
about the exigencies of communication:
And when speak of modern poetry as being extremely

I
critical, I mean that the contemporary poet, who is not

merely a composer of graceful verses, is forced to ask —
himself such a question as "what is poetry for?"; not
merely "what am I to say?" We have to communicate
if it is communication, for the word may beg the ques-
—
tion an experience which is not an experience in the
ordinary sense. 10
If "communication" begs the question (and I am not sure that

it does), universal applicability, as described by Allen Ginsberg,
might rest more comfortably:
Sometimes I do know [the poem] makes complete sense,

and I start crying. Because I realize I am hitting some
area which is absolutely true. And in that sense applicable
universally, or understandable universally. In that sense
able to be read through time —in that sense to be read
by somebody and wept to, maybe, centuries later. 11
The poet may be a prophet, but he is not a prophet crying in

the wilderness —not if he can help it, atany rate. He seeks to
9 "Spearpoint," The Saturday Review (June 24, 1972), pp. 33-39.
10
The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1933), p. 30.
11
Plimpton, Writers at Work, vol. 3, pp. 290-91.
17 MAKING A POEM
be understood, to communicate; and the precision of poetry

lies in the fulfillment of the twofold nature of the creative act.
The poem is precise when the offering and the response

correlate, when the poet's joy creates joy, when the poet's tears
cause tears to well in the eyes of the reader.
Still, this is abstract; it is time to return to the concrete,
to the making of the poem. I use another of my own in order

to work with what I know best. Consider the twofold act of
creation in the making of "Lemming Song."
My nerve ends fuse

as spring heat reaches
that thermostat in me
which triggers madness.
On the sea run remembering
at threeweeks old my prime
— this was not precocious lust
—
but timely seizing sex
in the sharp grass

newly loosed from the snow 10
where my mother dropped twelve

of us like pellets; so small
was our spark then.

But then before the moon phased
I was ready and pumping hot
new lemmings,
cued for haste and self-
destruction. The tundra
echoes with procreation
as it echoes now with death. 20
I would not have my flame

lesshard nor bright: it will take
the sea to quench me.
During the crafting of this poem I was very much aware

of a range of possible responses to almost every word, and
aimed for certain specific responses. I first took account of
what I. A. Richards in Practical Criticism calls "stock re-
sponses." These are the standard associations the reader is
likely to have with the lemming: the lemming throwing itself
MAKING A POEM 18
over the cliff, the lemming as a symbol of mass hysteria and
suicide. Such associations, I decided, could work to my advan-

tage, and thus I did not seek to dam the predictable flow of
associations tapped by the mention of lemmings. In fact, since
virtually everyone would know what a lemming is and would
have these responses, I could proceed rather early in the poem
to introduce new ideas about the lemming: haste and lust. The
lemming's madness is described in the first stanza, after which
the poem devotes itself wholly to the high-speed procreative
urge.
Despite hismuch touted suicidal bent, the lemming is,
after a small rodent. I expected that the image of this
all,
rodent "seizing sex" and making the tundra echo "with procrea-
tion" would be slightly incongruous, even humorous, to the
reader.
But was not sure that the reader would get the humor
I
I intended.The seriousness with which we usually approach

suicide might overwhelm the nascent humor. For this reason
I decided to put what I thought would be an unmistakable
signal in the last stanza. "I would not have my flame / less hard
nor bright" is a facetious allusion to a line by Walter Pater,
whom Iconsider pretentious. Pater once said that the aim of

life is to burn with a "hard, gem-like flame." Thus I intended
the reader to associate my lemming's rush to the sea with
Pater's pronouncement.
Some months before writing the poem I read an article
which observed that, in keeping with their short life span,
lemmings are able to reproduce at a very young age: child
brides and grooms all. This fact of early sexual prowess became
central to the poem; but since the reader could not be assumed
to have seen the same article, I decided to make the fact
explicit. Hence the phrase between dashes, "this was not
precocious lust but timely."
/
I worked hard deciding on individual words like "thermo-
stat," "triggers," "pellets," and "cued." Each is rich in connota-
tion: "thermostat" suggests mechanical and electrical devices
and denotes an apparatus to regulate heat; "triggers" obviously
connotes weaponry as well as the quick impulse to action;
"pellets" has a range of connotations from shotguns to dog
food; "cued" could suggest images of pool halls, as well as
poised readiness.
19 MAKING A POEM
My choices had to be made not only on the basis of the

sounds of words, what might or might not rhyme, what meter
is created by what number of syllables; ultimately, I had to
decide on the basis of what thoughts, images, and feelings a
word or phrase might evoke in the reader.
Conscious decision-making, not simply free-flowing emo-
tional release, was vital throughout the making of "Lemming
Song." As Paul Valery says, there are a "plurality of ways that
occur to the author during his labor of production," and
choices must be based on "the possible diversity of legitimate
—
effects" responses the poem might evoke. 12
I have discussed "Lemming Song" with friends and with
students in my classes on poetry, and these discussions have
resulted in a remarkable consistency of responses over the
years. Some of the decisions I made in gauging responses turn
out to have been wise ones; significant others have been shown
to be misguided. On the whole, the diction of the poem is suc-
cessful. "Thermostat," "triggers," "pellets" and "cued" the —
—
painstaking choices of diction evoke in the readers associa-
tions similar to those they possess for me. No one, for example,
has complained that "thermostat" too strongly suggests devices
on apartment walls and thus is inappropriate in a poem about
wild lemmings. "Pellets," about which I was not sure, seems
fine. Readers are able to visualize the newborn lemmings as
that tiny, that primitive in development. The diction seems to
work not because it neatly fits my readers' image of these
things and nothing more, but because it fits and enlarges. For
them, just as for me, the idea of encroaching madness resem-
bling something like a thermostat registering too intense a
heat, is a discovery, a growth in the way we view the phenome-
non.
My assumption that the allusion to Pater would be recog-
nized was incorrect. None of the readers has found the lem-
ming's credo suggestive of Walter Pater. Furthermore, in
estimating response to that line incorrectly, I misjudged the
poem's overall effect on the reader. Everyone has failed to
recognize the irony I intended throughout. My image of the
lemming's song as grandiose is not shared by others. They
take the poem entirely seriously. Taken seriously, the poem
is an expression of "seize the day," of living fast and hard. (I
12
"The Course in Poetics: First Lesson," in Ghiselin, The Creative Process, p. 99.
MAKING A POEM 20
say this realizing that the condensation of any poem into "an
expression" or "a meaning" makes it somewhat banal.) But if
the reference to Pater is lost, so is the ironic dimension of the
poem as a whole. It is intended not only as the expression
of a particular vision of life, but also as a comment on that
vision — that the lemming's view of the world (or anyone's)
should not be taken as solemnly as all that. For the majority
of readers my ironic intention was not perceived; therefore I
was less precise in gauging response than I hoped.
Finally, my readers tell me I also miscalculated in inserting
"this was not precocious lust / but timely" between dashes in
the second stanza. There is enough in the rest of the poem to
convey the precociousness of the lemming: the reference to its
age of three weeks when mating, the description of birth, the
moon-month image. For some, the lines between the dashes
intrude, a too explicit attempt on my part to clarify. Others
have not particularly objected to the lines, but have felt they
could just as well be omitted. In either case, as I had over-
estimated the probability of the reader's recognizing my allu-
sion to Pater, here I underestimated his ability to perceive one
of the poem's premises.
The conversations I was able to have with various in-
dividuals about "Lemming Song" are of the sort that should
take place about poems generally. It is not often, however, that
the poet has the luxury of a sympathetic group of readers who
are willing to talk with him in detail about his poem. Poets
who are also teachers can be lucky this way. Similarly, we as
readers seldom have the poet before us to discuss the making
of his poems. (Poetry readings, the usual forum, are typically
performances exclusive of dialogue.) It can happen, however,
even outside the organized poetry class, that correspondence
between reader and poet occurs. A beautiful and powerful
instance is reported by Stanley Kunitz. The poem is "The Dark
and the Fair."
A roaring company that festive night;

The beast of dialectic dragged his chains,
Prowling from chair to chair in the smoking light,
While the snow hissed against the windowpanes.
Our politics, our science, and our faith
Were whiskey on the tongue; I, being rent
21 MAKING A POEM
By the fierce divisions of our time, cried death

And death again, and my own dying meant.
Out of her secret life, that griffin-land
Where ivory empires build their stage, she came, 10
Putting in mine her small impulsive hand,

Five-fingered gift, and the palm not tame.
The moment clanged; beauty and terror danced

To the wild vibration of a sister-bell,
Whose unremitting stroke discountenanced
The marvel that the mirrors blazed to tell.
A darker image took this fairer form

Who once, in the purgatory of my pride,
When innocence betrayed me in a room
Of mocking elders, swept handsome to my side, 20
Until we rose together, arm in arm,

And fled together back into the world.
What brought her now, in the semblance of the warm,
Out of cold spaces, damned by colder blood?
That furied woman did me grievous wrong,
But does it matter much, given our years?
We learn, as the thread plays out, that we belong
Less to what flatters us than to what scars;
So, freshly turning, as the turn condones,

For her I killed the propitiatory bird, 30
Kissing her down. Peace to her bitter bones,

Who taught me the serpent's word, but yet the word.
Kunitz tells us that
after I first published the poem ... a stranger wrote to me

that there were lines in it that "beat the hell" out of him
. the best praise I ever heard. I have his generous letter,
. .
dated October 1, 1958, before me as I write, and I am

disarmed again by the fresh candor of my correspondent's
an interpretation: " The Dark and
voice, as in his offer of
the Fair/ seems to me, is the story of a love affair and
it
also, how Art came to you." In a passage that follows he

incorporates his stage directions: ". .After the first two .
stanzas, which I read with an obvious energy, I pause for

about three seconds; then I begin pianissimo with 'Out
MAKING A POEM 22
of her secret life' and build to a quiet sustained, intense

thing ending on 'colder blood.' I pause for about four
seconds and resign (sic) proudly for the rest of the way."
And now it seems clear to me that my final reason
for choosing this poem [for an anthology] is that it was
favored by Anthony Bove of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
stone mason and poet, who died untimely in Madrid at
the age of twenty-eight. 13
In the twofold act of creation, the ultimate goal, the

epitome of precision, is the kind of communion shared by
Anthony Bove and Stanley Kunitz. Bove provided Kunitz with
the "best praise," and the best praise a poet can receive is that
he judged correctly, that the response has become one with
the offering.
I have argued in this chapter for a different view of making
poetry and, hence, of the poet himself. This requires that we

abandon two widely held assumptions about the poet: that his
work is a passionate explosion of ideas, feelings, and images
onto the page before him; and that he is a self-ordained out-
cast, hurling his words at a world assumed to be indifferent
ifnot unsympathetic to his art.
One danger in breaking old molds is that they are too
readily succeeded by new ones no less rigid. We should not
replace the poet-as-pariah image with that of the poet as a
man whose every word is chosen in deference to its effect on
a body of real or imagined readers. Quite simply, the polarities
are misguided. The poet creates neither wholly for himself
nor wholly for others. As he creates, the poet is the others.
The creative act requires that the poet cease to be a private
person, much less an outcast, and embrace "otherhood" as
part of himself. Furthermore, one of the principal criteria of
a poem's success is how well the poet achieved otherhood as
he wrote it: as we read the poem, it will succeed insofar as
the poet has been able to be us, to look on his work not only
as its creator but as its reader.
If the poet can be —has to be—us, he really is not so totally
aloof and distant a figure; he is not, whatever the romantic
descriptions tell us, a different species of mortal. And if the
13
Engle and Langland, Poet's Choice, pp. 67-69.
23 MAKING A POEM
poet can be us, why can we

not be the poet? In the same sense
that the act of making requires the poet
to respond as a reader
of that poem, is it not possible that responding to the poem
may require us to be the poet?
As we view the poet in a different way, so must we view
the poem. If we accept my argument thus far, it no longer
makes sense to think of the poem as a fixed, immutable work.
The only thing that is fixed about a poem is the sequence of
words and lines on the page. These are important, but essen-
tially as a vehicle to transmit the poet's intention. They are
symbols and symbols depend on intentions. Think, for example,
of the American flag. It is a prodigious symbol, yet its meaning
is almost totally dependent on the intentions of both the user
and the perceiver. A member of the veterans of Foreign Wars

intends one thing as he marches down the street carrying the
flag; the pacifist intends another. Similarly, the veteran and
the pacifist, watching a parade in which the flag is carried by
a Cub Scout, are likely to interpret its meaning differently. To
pursue the analogy a bit further, the poet is a man waving
many different flags, sending out signals. The poem occurs
when we respond to his flags with our own, which ideally will
be able to duplicate and enlarge on the message he is sending.
What follows are successive versions of a poem I wrote,

inspired by an engraving of a pensive young man with
sitting
his legs crossed, and dressed in Renaissance costume. As poet,
I my words on the
consciously strove to imagine the effect of
reader. I an experiment these versions of the poem as
offer as
it moves toward its last incarnation. Without explanatory notes
by me, can a reader empathetically re-create my writing process

and understand why the poem progressed as it did?
version i:
To a Young Man in Tights and Tunic,

Posed Seated, Looking Moody
That calf which angles, leads
Us to you, a silvered long fish
Caught in a net of fingers
R e sting on your knee beneath
The tunic which arcs also parallel,
: .
MAKING A POEM 24
In parallel obedience across

Your breast frail as a souffle
Does not belie your breast,
Frail as a souffle
Hardly a pediment for such
A head, somehow both large
And small-featured, a sun-
Flower in shadow, waiting
For some miracle of heliotropism
Or eclipse . .
VERSION II
Rienzi: Etching of a Young Man

Us, a silvered long fish
On your knee, the parall e l diagonal
Arc of tunic
ribs torso
Does not belie your -breas-t frame
Frail as a souffle,
Doubtful pediment for such
A head both large
, magnificent and
Small-featured, a sunflower
A sunflower in shadow
Waiting for science
Or miracle, heliotropism
Or another source
Of light.
But the shade

Is as sure as ink.
version in:
Rienzi: Etching of a Young Man

Us, a silvered long fish
On your knee; the diagonal
Arc of tunic
Does not belie your frame,
25 MAKING A POEM
Frail as a souffle,
Doubtful pediment for such
A head, magnificent and
Small featured,
A sunflower in shadow
Waiting for science
Or miracle, heliotropism
Or another source
Of light.
But the shade

Is sure as ink.
RECONNAISSANCE
crickets
crickess
cricksss
cricssss
crisssss
crssssss
csssssss
ssssssss
ssssssts
sssssets
sssskets
sssckets
ssickets
srickets
crickets
Is this a poem? If you think it is, why? If you think it is not,

why not?
26
11
SHAPING A POETIC
ARS POETICA
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of
*****
birds
A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon climbs 10
Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
moon behind the winter leaves,
Leaving, as the
Memory by memory the mind
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
A poem
*****
should be equal to:
Not true
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf 20
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea
A poem should not mean
But be.
27
SHAPING A POETIC 28
Archibald MacLeish's "Ars Poetica" has been the focal point of

animated discussions by poets and teachers; it has been railed
against passionately and defended as gospel. The antagonists
draw their artillery from the last two lines, "A poem should
not mean / But be." "How true!" exclaim the poem's defenders.
"That's it exactly; a poem does not have to explain itself, does
not have to be anything other than free, free to be itself." "Ab-
do not the last
solutely false!" counters the other side. "In fact,
two lines contradict in practice the very point they make?
They say a poem should not mean, yet they mean something." *
The participants in this dispute fail to realize that they
are basically in agreement about the nature of poetry: both
assume that what is said in a poem can be judged "true" or
"false."
Before one can debate whether a poem "should not mean /
But be," there is a prior question. Is it valid to debate the
truth or falsity of something said in a poem? Can a poem tell
the truth? Can a poem lie?
Historically, it has been assumed that poetry indeed can
lie. This assumption stems from the writings of Plato, in
Book X of The Republic, and has put poetry and poets on the
defensive ever since.
Plato wished poetry banned from the Republic because
the poet "stimulates and strengthens an element which under-
mines the reason." 2
He supports this contention by noting
the poet's place in a hierarchy of three levels of being. The
highest level is the ideal or essential truth created by a god.
Next comes man's approximation of truth, the representation
of the ideal or essential, which is made by a craftsman. At the
third level is the work of a poet, a sorry creature who can only
make a representation of the representation. Using a bed as
his example, Plato argues that the ideal or essential bed is
that which exists in the mind; the one we lie on is that made
by a carpenter; and the one written about is that of the poet.
Poetry then is "at the third remove from the essential nature
of the thing" and "a long way from reality." 3
1
See Donald Stauffer, in Francis X. Connolly, Poetry: Its Power and Wisdom (New
York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1960), p. 69.
2
The Republic, trans. Francis MacDonald Cornford (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1945), p. 331.
»Ibid., pp. 327-28.
29 SHAPING A POETIC
The poet is therefore a liar. Although Plato is too genteel

to use that term, he does speak strongly:
We may conclude, then, that all poetry, from Homer on-

wards, consists in representing a semblance of its subject,
whatever it may be the poet, knowing nothing more
. . .
than how to represent appearances, can paint in words

his picture of any craftsman so as to impress an audience
which is equally ignorant and judges only by the form of
expression Strip what the poet has to say of its po-
etical colouring, and I think you must have seen what it
comes to in plain prose. It is like a face which was never
really handsome, when it has lost the fresh bloom of
youth. 4
The falseness of poetry leads to excessive emotion, which is

debilitating, appeals to what is weak in man, even "womanish":
We have, then, a fair case against the poet and we may

set him down as the counterpart of the painter, whom
he resembles in two ways: his creations are poor things
by the standard of truth and reality, and his appeal is not
to the highest part of the soul, but to one which is equally
inferior. 5
Reason is the sphere of truth and the ideal; poetry, being
false, appeals to the passions, watering their growth until

they, like weeds in a hitherto productive garden, destroy pos-
The "goodness and happiness of our
sibilities of fruitfulness.
lives,"according to Plato, depend on the passions' "being held
in subjection." Clinching his argument, Plato reminds us that
philosophy (truth) has always been opposed to poetry:
But, lest poetry should convict us of being harsh and un-

mannerly, let us tell her further that there is a long-
standing quarrel between poetry and philosophy. 6
Given the opposition of philosophy and poetry invoked by

Plato, it is interesting to see that another famous rational
philosopher, John Stuart Mill, undertook to defend poetry.
* Ibid., p. 331.
8 Ibid., p. 336.
• Ibid., p. 339.
SHAPING A POETIC 30
Mill's fame as a logician is legendary; in his autobiography,

he tells how proudest accomplishment was
at age twelve his
dissecting a bad argument, discovering where the fallacy lay.
As a logician, he, like Plato, finds philosophy and poetry in
opposition:
By logic ... I mean the antithesis of Poetry or Art: in

which distinction I am meaning to perceive a twofold
contrast: the literal as opposed to the symbolical, and
reasoning as opposed to intuition. Not the theory of rea-
soning but the practice. In reasoning I include all proc-
esses of thought which are processes at all, that is, which
proceed by a series of steps or links. 7
This hardly looks like a defense of poetry; Mill seems to be

denying the poet reason; the poet cannot put two ideas to-
gether by "steps or links." Since Mill allies the poet and the
painter as men who have "a tendency to conceive things in
pictures . . . richly clothed in attributes and circumstances,"
precisely as Plato had done, there is good reason to wonder
just what kind of "defense" this will be.
Departing from Plato, Mill defends the poet on the basis
of human feelings:
Let our philosophical system be what may, human feel-

it
ings exist: human nature, with all enjoyments and

its
sufferings, its strugglings, its victories and defeats, still

remain [s] to us; and these are the materials of all poetry.
Whoever, in the greatest concerns of human life, pursues
truth with unbiased feelings, and an intellect adequate to
discern it, will not find the resources of poetry are lost to
him because he has learned to use and not to abuse them.
They are as open to him as to the sentimental weaklings,
who have no test of the true but the ornamental. And
when he once has them under his command, he can wield
them for purposes, and with a power, of which neither
the dilettante nor the visionary have the slightest con-
ception. 8
7
Earlier Letters, ed. Francis E. Mineka, in Collected Works, vol. 12 (Toronto: Uni-
versity of Toronto Press, 1963), p. 173.
8 "Tennyson's Poems," in J. W. Gibbs, ed., Early Essays (London: G. Bell and Sons,
1897), pp. 266-67.
31 SHAPING A POETIC
As its defender, Mill is nonetheless wary of poetry. If he were

not, why the mention of the "sentimental weaklings," and the
emphasis on using but not abusing poetry (as if it were some
sort of minor vice)? On the whole, though, Mill affirms poetry's
humanizing power. We might wonder how Mill, starting from
virtually the same premises as Plato, could reach such different
conclusions.
The answer lies in Mill's life story and the role poetry
played in it. As a young man, Mill experienced a severe intel-
lectual and emotional crisis. All his skill as a logician was

doing him no good; in fact, it was wearing away his feelings.
He felt he was losing touch with humanity. Desperate, he
turned to poetry, and in Wordsworth found expressions of
beauty that were medicinal. Poetry rescued Mill from the abyss
created by his devotion to analysis and logic. Later, he had to
defend poetry even if he could not reconcile it with philosophy.
Mill does not so much deny that the poet tells lies, as
praise the salubrious effect of the poet on mankind, lies not-
withstanding. In this sense, the difference between Plato and
Mill is simply one of degree. For Plato, poetry lies, and the
lies are pernicious; for Mill, there are lies in poetry, but
these are "white lies," exaggerations undertaken in the service
of beauty.
In our day, philosophy has been replaced by science as the
domain of truth; but poetry is still the odd man out. We divide
learning into the arts and sciences; and of the arts, poetry is
the least respectable.Anyone who doubts this needs merely

to inquire how many schools and universities have poets on
their faculties and, of those that do, how many treat their poet-
teachers as regular faculty, entitled to rank and tenure priv-
ileges. Worse yet, how many
English departments are not guilty
of dealing with the creative arts generally and poetry spe-
cifically as interlopers? Creative writing, the practice of the art,
is generally considered —
from Harvard to Berkeley as a lesser —
activity within the English department. "Knowledge" resides
not in writing poetry, but in being a literary historian steeped
in facts and chronology. Even the defenders of poetry are too
often uneasy; like Mill, they profess a "weakness" for poetry, a
susceptibility. Or what is even less helpful, they —like those
—
mentioned in the first chapter aggrandize and mystify poetry;
it becomes a magic practiced by sorcerers. The poet on the
SHAPING A POETIC 32
faculty is encouraged to be "colorful," and is viewed with a

mixture of awe and bemused tolerance.
In the world outside the university, poetry is no less
suspect. To discover that someone writes poetry comes as a
surprise and makes him at least a little strange. Eugene Mc-
Carthy, as a presidential aspirant, revealed to the press that he
wrote poems. He was already an anomalous candidate for pres-
ident,and poetry-writing added to his unsuitability, to his
image as the impractical dreamer. That some of his poems
were displayed in major magazines did not improve his chances
of being elected.
We know that volumes of poetry rarely if ever make the
best seller list. Nor are they selected by the Book-of-the-Month
Club. The average literate American, choosing a book on a
winter evening, is almost sure to find what he is looking for
in a novel. In fact, most readers would rather read anything
than poetry.
None of this is to say, "Poor poetry, neglected stepchild
of the literary world!" Nor do I mean to indict as philistine
schools, universities, and the reading public. These observa-
tions point not toward accusation or chastisement but toward
genuinely perplexing questions that need to be pursued in
establishing a working poetic: What is it about poetry that sets
it apart from other literature? Why is it that poetry isn't read
by people who read newspapers, novels, and biographies? Why

has poetry, historically, been the object of attack and defense
as no other genre of literature?
Condensed, these questions become one: What are the
distinguishing characteristics of poetry? The question does not
admit of an easy answer, and no definition per se will do.
Defining poetry, the first chapter in many a textbook, is an
exercise in futility. For example, "A poem is a formal structure
in which many elements operate at the same time." 9 Or,
"Poetry is a form of speech, written or spoken." 10 Suppose
someone said to you, "Define Carla, your closest friend." I hope
you would reject the task as ridiculous. "Describe Carla," is a
more reasonable request. Definition stultifies; it makes rigid
9John Ciardi, How Does a Poem Mean? (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1959), p. 1.
10
Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren, Understanding Poetry (New York: Holt,
Rinehart and Winston, 1960), p. 1.
33 SHAPING A POETIC
that which is fluid, it treats as product that which is process.

—
We might be able to describe poetry as difficult a task as de-
scribing the complexities and the mobile characteristics of a
person —but we shall not set out to define it.
Where to begin? In this instance, the obvious is also the

best: poetry uses words, and a discussion of poetics ought to
begin with this fact. Because all literature, including poetry,
uses words as its medium, poetry in effect has no medium of
its own. The painter, the sculptor, the musical composer, all
have established, discrete media with which they work. Cur-

—
rently, many artists are creating new media a painter I know
of experiments with vegetable juices on wrapping paper, a
sculptor shapes gargantuan mounds of earth, a composer ar-
ranges electronic bleeps. But whether they use the media
traditionally associated with their art or create new media (or,
as has become common, mix media), there is in each instance
a medium capable of being separated from the everyday com-
munications of men. Not so the poet: he began centuries ago
with words of common usage and has continued to use such
words to make poems. It thus becomes all the more perplexing
to observe the status of poetry among the arts.
Wecan only conclude that what the poet does with words
is very different from what other people —
even other literary
artists, like novelists or playwrights —
do with words. But if
the poet's use of words is so different, how can he also be,
as I contended in the first chapter, a man speaking to other
men?
Our investigation of these questions can begin with a
study of the poetics of Coleridge, the first modern aesthetician.
Like Plato and Mill, Coleridge seeks to describe the workings
of poetry; unlike them, and unlike most of his predecessors,
—
Coleridge has no axe to grind his is neither a defense nor an
—
attack. And he brings a panoply of skills as poet, critic, psy-
—
chologist, and philosopher to his conversations about poetry.
Most important, Coleridge does not start with the effect of
poetry on men's morals; he begins with the making of poetry
and proceeds to discuss how it works as art, not as moral
philosophy.
The poet himself is the nucleus of Coleridge's discussions.
For him, "What is poetry? is so nearly the same question with,
—
SHAPING A POETIC 34
what is a poet? that the answer to the one is involved in the

1X
solution of the other."
The first characteristic of the poet and poetry that Cole-
ridge identifies is excitement. The quality of excitement —in
the poet as he writes, in the poem, in the person reading
from other uses of language:
sets the language of poetry apart
"The very assumption that we are reading the work of a poet
supposes that he is in a continuous state of excitement; and
thereby arises a language in prose unnatural, but in poetry
natural." 12 The reader becomes aware of "that pleasurable
emotion, that peculiar state and degree of excitement that
13
arises in the poet himself in the act of composition."
We can be happy that Coleridge does not confront us with
a definition. Nor does he identify features of the poem-as-
object: its meter, subject matter, figurative language, or stan-
zaic form. He discusses the poem as a process in which the
poet and reader participate.
"Excitement" in Coleridge's lexicon becomes more sig-
nificant as he equates it with passion:
Now does always imply passion: which word

poetry . . .
must be here understood in its general sense, as an ex-

cited state of feelings or faculties. And as every passion
has its proper pulse, so will it likewise have its character-
istic modes of expression. But where there exists that
degree of genius and talent, which entitles a writer to aim
at the honors of a poet, the very act of poetic composition
itself is, and is allowed to imply and to produce an un-
usual state of excitement, which of course justifies and
demands a correspondent difference of language, as truly,
though not perhaps in as marked a degree, as the excite-
ment of love, fear, rage, or jealousy. 14
All men are capable of excitement, of passion. A man becomes

a poet when he is able to convey his passion to another
11
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, ed. George Watson (London: J. M.
Dent, 1917, 1956), p. 564.
12
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Coleridge's Shakespearean Criticism, ed. Thomas Middle-
ton Raysor, vol. 2 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1930), pp. 67-68.
13
Ibid., p. 77.
14
Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, p. 564.
35 SHAPING A POETIC
through language. No, he must do more than "convey" that —

term sounds too much like simple transport. The poet's use
of language, language "correspondent" with his emotion, must
be capable of re-creating the emotion within the reader. The
poet's is an "unusual statement of excitement," but not a
mysterious or unearthly passion: Coleridge carefully points
out that the poet's emotion is like the excitement of our most
basic emotions.
Coleridge's poetics contain contradictions. He is pulled
on one side by a democratic impulse, and does not wish to set
the poet apart from other men. The poet's passion can be
shared by all of us; poetry can be understood by "the prin-
ciples of grammar, logic, psychology and good sense." Yet
Coleridge also describes the poet as a man possessing "vision
and the faculty divine," a species of demigod.
Whether the poet is demigod, man among men, or both,
his work cannot be sustained solely by passion. Coleridge
recognizes this, and broadens his characterization of poetry
to include not only the poet's excitement but also his crafts-
manship:
[Poetry] is the art of communicating whatever we wish
to communicate, so as to express and produce excitement,

but for the purpose of immediate pleasure; and each part
is fitted to afford as much pleasure, as is compatible with
the largest sum of the whole. 15
The emphasis in that passage is mine, to underscore the dual

nature of the poet's work and hence poetry. As we discovered
empirically in the first chapter, after the burst of creative ex-
citement in writing a poem, comes a time of slower, pains-

taking weighing and balancing of words. The words unleashed
initially, no matter how emotion-laden they may be, may not
be the right words. The poem is not fulfilled, we said, unless

it is precise.
Our notion of precision, based on the process of writing
the poem, was that of realized intentions, in which the poet's
and the reader's apprehension of the poem become one.
Coleridge describes this phenomenon somewhat differently,
and refines our thinking about the "right" word or line in a
16
Coleridge, Coleridge' s Shakespearean Criticism, vol. 2, pp. 67-68.
SHAPING A POETIC 36
poem. It's right, he says, if it is absolutely untranslatable, if it
could not be replaced by any other word:
In poetry, in which every line, every phrase, may pass the

ordeal of deliberation and deliberate choice, it is possible,
and barely possible, to attain that ultimate which I have
ventured to propose as the infallible test of the blameless

style; its untranslatableness in words of the same lan-
guage without injury to the meaning. Be it observed,
however, that I include in the meaning of a word not only
its correspondent object, but likewise all the associations
which it recalls. 16
The key sentence is the last. Coleridge is not speaking simply

of denotative meaning ("dog" is the right word because the
poem requires reference to a four-legged hunting companion
of man), but of the cluster of connotations or associations
that orbit around the word ("dog" is right because it connotes
a certain kind of loyalty, submission, manginess, or whatever).
The poem will be precise and untranslatable when any other
word would evoke associations detrimental to the whole.
Think of the opening lines of T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song
of J. Alfred Prufrock" (see p. 189).
Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table
Would "night" do as well as "evening"? Would "cast across"

reasonably replace "spread out"? Could "sick man" be sub-
stituted for "patient," or "anesthetized" for "etherized"? If a
reader accepts any of these possible substitutions (or thinks
of others that would suffice), then for him the poem is not
working. I will go further: it is not truly a poem (for that
reader) if it or any part of it can be translated into other
words.
For me, these lines are perfect. In Coleridge's terms, I find
that they, as a part of a larger whole, "pass the ordeal of
—
deliberation and deliberate choice" none of the words I sug-
gested can be substituted for those chosen by Eliot. "Evening"
" Ibid., p. 611.
37 SHAPING A POETIC
is right becauseit suggests an eerie half-light, a foreboding of
total darkness. "Night" would be too absolute, too black; noth-

ing could be seen across a pitch-black sky. "Spread out" re-
minds me of torture by spread-eagling a victim; it also con-
—
notes a kind of passivity for example, jam is spread; it doesn't
spread itself. "Cast across" would lose these suggestions and
bring in less desirable ones like a fisherman casting his line,
or bread cast upon the waters. The poem needs the irrevocable
anonymity of "patient." We don't know the gender nor the
particular illness of a "patient"; "sick man" would be too ex-
plicit. The "patient" could and should be anyone-e very one, not
a particular person. One can have a local anesthetic; and "an-

esthetic" has certain positive, healing connotations. "Ether-
ized," on the other hand, is total in its effect on a human being
—
and sinister in its explicit gaseous nature therefore it is the
superior choice.
Such word-by-word testing of the poem by no means ac-
counts for its total effectiveness. But it serves to corroborate
Coleridge's assertion that one important characteristic of
poetry is its untranslatableness. And I might add that I am
speaking of all poetry, not just lyric poetry, for example, nor
of poetry of a specific historical period. The test of untrans-
latableness can be put to the first four lines of Shakespeare's
Sonnet 73 (see p. 192) as well as to the poetry of T. S. Eliot.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Try "season" for "time," "ochre" for "yellow," "shudder" for

"shake," or "once" for "late." Meter and rhyme introduce new
strictures on the choices made, but the test of untranslatability
remains valid.
Having railed against the proclivity of many critics to de-
fine poetry, what can I say as we come to what Coleridge calls
his "final definition"? First, that I wish he had called this a
description instead of a definition; but that seems petty. Be-
sides, it is a definition. Its saving grace as a definition is,
I think, that Coleridge formulates it not at the outset, but
midway through his poetics, long after he has described,

SHAPING A POETIC 38
through the poetic process, how language in poetry differs

from its other uses. Also, there is nothing "final" at all about
the definition. It is a marking point, a summing up of observa-
tions so far; Coleridge goes on to say much more about poetry.
Here it is:
The final definition then, so deduced, may be thus worded.

A poem is is opposed
that species of composition, which
to the works of by proposing for its immediate
science,
object pleasure, not truth; and from all other species
(having this object in common
with it) it is discriminated
by proposing to such delight from the whole, as is
itself
compatible with distinct gratification from each com-
ponent part. 17
This is a difficult passage. However, unlike poetry, it is
words in the same language. First,

translatable into different
Coleridge opposes poetry and science, following the line of
reasoning expounded by both Plato and Mill. It is the business
of science to reveal and assert truth, hard facts. Truth is
secondary or incidental to poetry. Since Coleridge emphasizes
that truth is not poetry's "immediate object," I take him to
mean that there is no reason why poetry cannot be true; but
truth is not its prime concern. Coleridge leaves open the issue
of the truth or falsity of poetry; in effect he does not belabor
the matter, except to propose that poetry must, above all,
achieve pleasure.
The latter part of the passage distinguishes poetry from
other "species" that also propose pleasure as their object (I
think of plays or the novel in this context) and argues that
poetry differs in the degree of precision it must attain.
We
have discussed poetry's precision thoroughly enough to
translate these remarks liberally. My interpretation is that
they mean that poetry is all style. We cannot say of a poem,
as we can of a novel, "The writing style leaves something to
be desired, but it is a powerful work of art" the kind of —
statement that can, for example, apply to the work of Theodore
Dreiser or Thomas Wolfe. The very fact that we comment on a
novelist's writing style at all, positively or negatively, indicates
that it isa quality of his art separable from the whole. (One of
my favorite remarks on style is attributed to Alfred Kazin,
" Ibid., p. 557.
39 SHAPING A POETIC
talking about Norman Mailer: "Mailer is as fond of his style

as an Italian tenor is of his vocal cords.") We cannot speak of
a poet's style. A
poet cannot be a good stylist or a poor stylist:
if his writing style is not good, he cannot make a poem, for a
poem is all style. And since it is all style, a poem's every part,
down to the last word, must be precise.
Being all style, a poem is not only style, I hasten to add.
Style is one way of describing the precision of poetry; and
precision, in turn, is one of three characteristics Coleridge
identifies. Passion, a continuous undercurrent of feeling in the
poem, and the pleasure to be derived from the poem are the
other two.
A shortcoming in Coleridge's analysis of poetry is that he
never adequately describes how and why poetry gives pleasure.
Coleridge has often misled critics on this point because he does
discuss how and why meter, specifically, creates pleasurable
response. Meter has the capacity "to increase the vivacity and
susceptibility both of the general feelings and of the attention"
by producing "the continued excitement of surprise" and "the
quick reciprocations of curiosity still gratified and still re-
excited." 18 This description is rightly famous; nowhere else in
literary criticism do we find such a succinct and perceptive
account of meter in poetry.
But meter is not, according to Coleridge, a fundamental
attribute of poetry. Not only do his descriptions of how poetry
works make no mention of meter, but his debate with Words-
worth (which we shall examine shortly) manifestly declares
that Coleridge considers meter to be a device of poetry (like
rhyme) rather than one of its essential characteristics.
The assumption that Coleridge defines poetry in terms of
meter is widely enough held to deserve explicit rebuttal. One
critic tells us that "Coleridge expressly defines a poem in such
a way as to make meter an essential attribute." 19 This con-
tention is supported by the same "final definition" we have just
discussed, and in which we find no mention of meter. It is
simply not the case that Coleridge considers meter to be "an
essential attribute" of poetry.
Critics have also devoted some attention to the seeming
paradox of Coleridge's argument that the poet and poetry are
18 Ibid., pp. 558-59.

19
M. H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp (New York: Oxford University Press,
1953), p. 117.
SHAPING A POETIC 40
at once excited and precise. They argue that emotion and in-
tellect(excitement and precision) are never fully reconciled in
Coleridge's poetics. Coleridge is accused of having bequeathed
to later generations of literary critics a "fatal legacy" of in-
decision. 20 And we hear
that Coleridge, by using "two con-
trolling analogues,one of a machine, the other of a plant
[divided] the process and products of art into two distinct
kinds." 21
Coleridge, however, contends that the poet is able to

reconcile "a more than usual state of emotion with more than
usual order":
The poet brings the whole soul of man into activity,

. . .
with the subordination of its faculties to each other, ac-

cording to their relative worth and dignity. He diffuses a
tone and spirit of unity, that blends, and (as it were) fuses,
each into each, by that synthetic and magical power, to
which we have exclusively appropriated the name of
imagination. This power reveals itself in the balance
. . .
of reconciliation of opposite or discordant qualities: of

sameness, with difference; of the general, with the con-
crete; the idea, with the image; the individual, with the
representative; the sense of novelty and freshness, with
old and familiar objects; a more than usual state of emo-
tion, with more than usual order. 22
There is, it seems to me, only one way to verify Coleridge's

description of the poet's synthesizing capability. Write a poem.
The experience of making a poem brings the faculties of which
Coleridge speaks into play. A self-conscious analysis of the act
of making the poem will reveal whether in fact opposites are
reconciled, whether the imagination balances discordant qual-
ities. To speak of how the poet-poem works without working
on a poem is speculation, armchair poetics.
Coleridge's debate with Wordsworth forces him to assert
his poetic vigorously and explicitly, for each man was both a
poet and an aesthetician, and each was fully convinced that
he was accurately revealing the essence of poetry.
In addition, not only were Coleridge and Wordsworth
20
Alan Tate, Reason in Madness (New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1941), p. 51.
21
Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp, p. 176.
22
Biographia Literaria, p. 524.
41 SHAPING A POETIC
friends and colleagues who understood each other well, but

they shared a desire to liberate poetry from the sway of clever
but not truly passionate practitioners. Wordsworth insists
that poetry be made of the "language really used by men":
Such a language, arising out of repeated experience and

regular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more
philosophical language, than that which is frequently sub-
stituted for by poets, who think that they are conferring
it
honour upon themselves and their art in proportion as

they separate themselves from the sympathies of men,
and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expres-
sion, in order to furnish food for fickle taste and fickle
appetites of their own creation. 23
Speaking to the same point, Coleridge advises that "the pas-

sionand passionate flow of poetry" must not be subordinated
to the "subtleties of intellect." Coleridge's "subtleties of intel-
lect" —intellect divorced from feeling —and Wordsworth's. "ar-
bitrary and capricious habits of expression" are virtually the
same.
Coleridge and Wordsworth worked so closely together
over so many years that at first Coleridge could only half sense
that there was a fundamental difference between them con-
cerning the nature of poetry. Wordsworth declares his poetic
in the "Preface" to his Lyrical Ballads, of which Coleridge says
in a letter to the poet Robert Southey, "Although Wordsworth's
'Preface' is half a child of my own brain, [I] rather suspect
that somewhere or other there is a radical difference in our
theoretical opinions concerning poetry; this I shall endeavor
to get to thebottom of." 24
The "radical difference" lies in how the two men perceived
the function of meter in poetry. For Wordsworth, it is meter
which makes poetry:
It would be a most easy task to prove to [the reader] that

not only the language of a large portion of every good poem,
even of the most elevated character, must necessarily,
23 "Preface 1800" (to the edition of the Lyrical Ballads), The Poems of Wordsworth,
ed. Andrew J. George (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1932), p. 791.
24
Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp, p. 116, quoting The Letters of Samuel Taylor
Coleridge (London, 1950), pp. 386-87.
SHAPING A POETIC 42
except with reference to the metre, in no respect differ

from that of good prose, but likewise that some of the
most interesting parts of the poems will be found to be
strictly the language of prose when prose is well written. 25
Even without my added emphasis, the meaning of this passage

is clear. Wordsworth tells us that the only thing that dis-
tinguishes poetry from anything else well written is meter.
Before considering Wordsworth's supporting argument, I
suggest we try out his contention for ourselves. If what he
says is true, we should be able to make a poem by taking a
well-written prose passage and arranging it so that the lines
become metrical. I will work with a paragraph from the
"Foreword" of Robert Coles' Children of Crisis:
I can still feel myself standing there, benighted, fright-

ened, seized with curiosity, suddenly quite restless. I was
not morally outraged. I did not want to join in the
Negroes' protest for equal access to the essentially use-
less, shallow bit of seashore. Eventually, I simply wanted
to go away; and I did. Riding home I condemned all the
antagonists —for choosing to fight for such
fighting, for
absurd stakes, for being the kind of people who would
fight. I am not now very proud of those minutes. Yet if
I forgot them, I would be even more ashamed.
26
Good prose. I shall try for trochaic meter; the accent falling
on the first Each line will
syllable of each two-syllable foot.
have three feet,and should sound approximately like this:
DA dum DA dum DA dum. (Some of course will not fit the
pattern exactly.)
I can still feel myself

standing there, benighted,
frightened, seized with curiosity,
suddenly quite restless.
I was not morally

outraged. I did not want
to join in the Negroes'
26 "Preface 1800," p. 792.
26 Children of Crisis (New York: Delta Publishing, 1964), p. 5.
43 SHAPING A POETIC
protest for equal access

to that essentially useless,
shallow bit of seashore.
Eventually, I simply
wanted to go away;
and I did. Riding home I
condemned all the antagonists
for fighting, for choosing
to fight for such absurd
stakes, for being the kind
of people who would fight.
I am not now very

proud of those minutes. Yet
if I forgot them, I
would be even more ashamed.
My metrical success is modest at best; I had some difficulty

realizing the rhythm I attempted. Certain words, like "curios-
ity," do not yield readily to the demands of superimposed
meter. I also took some liberty in breaking the passage into
four stanzas. Despite the hazards of the enterprise, Coles'
prose passage does emerge metrical, and looks on the page
very much like a poem. Is it therefore a poem?
Wordsworth takes a different tack to demonstrate that
poetry is essentially good prose made metrical. He starts with
a poem, rather than prose, and attempts to show that certain
lines in the poem, except for no dif-
their metrical form, are
ferentfrom prose. Using a sonnet by Thomas Gray, Words-
worth emphasizes those lines on which he bases his case.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire;
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine;
Adifferent object do these eyes require;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And newborn pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear,
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
—
SHAPING A POETIC 44
/ fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep themore because I weep in vain.
The "only part of this Sonnet, which is of any value, is the

lines printed in italics," says Wordsworth, and "except in the
rhyme, and in the use of the single word 'fruitless' for 'fruit-
lessly/ which is so far a defect, the language of these lines
does in no respect differ from that of prose." 27 Knowing what
we do of Wordsworth's objections to affected, artificial writing,
we can understand his condemnation of high-flown phrases
like "reddening Phoebus" and "amorous descant." We can also
imagine why he objects to notes that "repine" and fields that
"resume their green attire." In fact, we might agree that the
lines Wordsworth italicizes are the best in the poem; but that
is not to say that they are best because they in no way differ
from the language of prose.

Wordsworth, however, is so convinced of the correctness
of his view that he rushes to generalization. What holds for the
lines of this sonnet holds for all poetry:
We go further. It may be safely affirmed that there

will
neither nor can be, any essential difference between
is,
the language of prose and metrical composition. 28
is not whether this or

Coleridge counters that the issue
that sequence of words can occur in prose as well as poetry
"The true question must be, whether there are not modes of
expression, a construction and an order of sentences, which
are in their fit and natural place in a serious prose composi-
tion, but would be disproportionate and heterogeneous in
metrical poetry; and vice versa. 29 By "construction" and "or-
der," I take Coleridge to mean diction and syntax. And he later
remarks on figures of speech that work in poetry but weaken
prose.
Fully appreciative of the powerful effects of meter, Cole-
ridge still insists that it is not the defining characteristic of
poetry:
For any poetic purpose, metre resembles (if the aptness

of the similemay excuse its meanness) yeast, worthless
« "Preface 1800," p. 793.
28
Ibid., p. 793.
29 Biographia Literaria, pp. 556-57.
45 SHAPING A POETIC
or disagreeable by itself, but giving vivacity and spirit to

the liquor with which it is proportionally combined. 30
The "liquor" is the language of poetry, as it were, before meter
— can be enlivened by meter, but requires for its essence

it
other ingredients. Coleridge had no way of anticipating what

we now call "free verse" (poetry that has no formal meter
although, like all poetry, it is rhythmic). Yet his apprehension
of the function of meter in poetry is almost prophetic of free
verse. If one believes that free verse is true poetry, it is, in the
terms of Coleridge's analogy, like bread made without yeast
but it is genuine bread nonetheless.
In the sense that it relies on broadly conceived notions of
passion, precision, and the achievement of pleasure, Cole-
ridge's poetic is less definitive than Wordsworth's. No matter
how fully we may explore what Coleridge intends by his three
criteria, we can never reduce them to a formula, to strict
definition(although "precision equated with untranslatable-
ness" approaches a definition). Wordsworth, in contrast, of-
fers a formula: poetry is the speech of men, or good prose,
made Clear formulation has its appeal; Words-
metrical.
worth, seduced by a basically narrow view, overestimated its
validity.
It is clear to me that Coleridge's poetic is more profound
than Wordsworth's. Moreover, Coleridge's poetic is a major
advance in the study of poetry. Although he does not question
the old dichotomy between poetry and science (or philosophy),
Coleridge is the first aesthetician to go beyond classification
and defense-attack strategies and into a study of the dynamics
of poetry. He considers language, and the way language is used
in poetry, as a way of understanding poetry. It is Coleridge
whom we can credit with the concept of a special use of lan-
guage as the distinguishing feature of poetry. Further, the use
of language in poetry as Coleridge conceives it does not com-
prise the usual classification of surface features: figures of
speech, similes, rhyme, and so forth. Coleridge a geologist, is
not a cartologist; he takes core samplings of the ore of poetry

and finds that beneath the surface are special emotional qual-
ities infused in the language that makes poetry.
For all his insights, Coleridge leaves us with a dilemma.
so
Ibid., p. 559.
—
SHAPING A POETIC 46
He does not adequately describe the pleasure we receive from

poetry. Granted that the pleasure of which he speaks is more
profound than what would bring a smile to our faces; granted,
also, that the aim of poetry is pleasure insofar as poetry, unlike
an auto mechanic's manual or a scientific treatise, is not "use-
ful" and does not lead to "results," yet we must still ask what
ismeant by the particular kind of pleasure attributed to poetry.
The effect of poetry has been damned by Plato, exalted by Mill,
and singled out as a uniquely created pleasure by Coleridge
understanding how poetry works requires that we explore this
particular idea of pleasure further.
I should remark that for those who agree with Words-
worth, Frost, and others that meter is essential to poetry, the

task of understanding poetry's effect is more straightforward.
—
A convincing poetic can be based on life rhythms the seasons,
days, heartbeats, —
rhythms of speech within which the meter
of poetry embodies a condensation, a focusing and organizing
form that gratifies our ear and pulse because it articulates,
replicates, and transforms that which is already necessary and
pleasurable to us. Those of us who believe meter is the yeast
but not the grain of poetry have a more difficult task before
us.
Modern aestheticians, inheritors of Coleridge's legacy, have
based their work on the same bipartite philosophy of language:
on the one hand, there is the language of science, made up of
facts, asserting truths; on the other, the language of poetry,
emotional and, while not necessarily false, certainly not re-
sponsible for truth in the same way as is the language of sci-
ence. The poetic use of language is not usually restricted to
poetry, but includes emotional language generally. It is sympto-
matic of the general perception of poetry that poetry is singled
out as the repository of emotional language. The term "poetic
language" can encompass everything from vivid writing to
epithets.
The division language into two functions becomes
of
repetitive in modern if we attend to how
aesthetic theory, but
each aesthetician defines the two kinds of language use, we
inch closer to an understanding of how the language of poetry
affects the respondent.
Here is C. K. Ogden and I. A. Richards' account of language
use, from The Meaning of Meaning:
47 SHAPING A POETIC
A twofold division of language function is convenient, the

division beingbetween the symbolic use of words and the
emotive use. The symbolic use of words is statement; the
recording, the support, the organization and the com-
munication of references. The emotive use of words is a
more simple matter, it is the use of words to express or
excite feelings and attitudes. 31
In Aesthetics, Monroe C. Beardsley diagrams the two ways

language works (creates meaning):
Import: capacity to affect the hearer.
Cognitive import = Emotive import =

purport: capacity to capacity to affect
affect the hearer's the hearer's feelings,
beliefs (i.e., to convey
information). 32
And Kenneth Burke, in The Philosophy of Literary Form, gives

examples of semantic as contrasted with poetic meaning:
Semantic meaning would be a way of pointing to a chair.

It would say, "That thing is a chair." And to a carpenter
it would imply, in keeping with his organized technique,
"By doing such arid such, I can produce this thing, a

chair." Poetic pointing, on the other hand, might take
many courses, roughly summed up in these three sen-
tences:
"Faugh! a chair!"
"Ho, ho!! a chair!"
"Might I call your attention to yon chair?"
Of these, the third style of pointing obviously comes near-

est to the semantic ideal. The first two, most strongly
31 The Meaning of Meaning, 4th ed., rev. (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.,
1936), p. 149.
83 Aesthetics (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1958), p. 118.
SHAPING A POETIC 48
weighted with emotional values, with attitudes, would be

farther off. 33
Symbolic and emotive use of language, cognitive and emotive

import, semantic and poetic meaning these are various ways —
of saying the same thing: meaning in language comprises two
modes, factual and emotional. The structure of this theory no
longer interests us, except historically. The details and nuances
are what count.
Even we should note that the
in the brief excerpts quoted,
division not simply between fact and feeling, but hints at a
is
contrast between a more passive and a more active role on the

part of the reader. With Ogden and Richards, words used
symbolically comprise statement and recording, whereas the
emotive use of words excites feelings and attitudes. In Beards-
ley, the distinction between beliefs and feelings is a distinction
between the relatively static and the active faculties: beliefs
are held, feelings cannot be. Burke underscores "attitudes"
that are contrasted with beliefsand knowledge; later in the
same passage Burke says that "an attitude contains an implicit
program of action."
Here are further samples from the three poetic theories:
ogden and Richards: The difference between the two uses

of language may be exactly characterized as follows:
. . .
In symbolic speech the essential considerations are the

correctness of symbolization and the truth of references.
In evocative [emotive] speech the essential consideration
is the character of the attitude aroused. 34
beardsley: Two basic types of import are to be distin-

guished. On the one hand the linguistic expression may
have a tendency to cause certain beliefs. On the other . . .
hand, the linguistic expression may have a tendency to

evoke certain feelings or emotions in the hearer. This ca-
pacity I shall call its emotive import. For example, among
a certain group of people, an Anglo-Saxon four-letter word
may tend to arouse a feeling of horrified shock or disgust;
1
The Philosophy of Literary Form, rev. ed. (New York: Vintage Book s, 1957), p. 125.
1
The Meaning of Meaning, p. 239.
49 SHAPING A POETIC
certain sentences about Home, Mother, or Alma Mater

may tend to arouse a warm glow of affection. 35
burke: The semantic ideal would attempt to get a descrip-

tion by the elimination of attitude. The poetic ideal would
attempt to attain a full moral act by attaining a perspec-
tive atop all the conflicts of attitude. 36
Burke is the most explicit, but the same emphasis pervades the
other theories and leads to a consensus on the poetic itself:
language used emotively (poetry is the prime example of this)

requires an activity different at least in degree and perhaps in
kind from that required by language used symbolically.
We may tentatively conclude that the special pleasure cre-
ated by poetry is a function of this activity.
One question leads to another (we must have faith in the
existence of a bull's-eye if we are to aim at increasingly smaller
circles). If the pleasure of poetry may be a function of the
particular kind of activity created by language as it is used in
poetry, what is this activity?
the making of meaning. Using Burke's chair example,
It is
we can ask, "When told, 'That thing is a chair,' what is there
for the hearer to do himself?" Very little. The object is named;
the utterance is a statement of fact. If the hearer is confronted
by "Faugh! a chair!" there is a great deal he must do to give
the utterance meaning. He must be attentive to the facial ex-
pression and the tone of voice of the speaker, to the object
designated (if there is one) —to the total context of the ut-
terance as well as the utterance itself (what does faugh
mean?). In sum, the hearer must make meaning out of "Faugh!
a chair!" He, as well as the speaker, is responsible for realizing
the intentions of the utterance.
What makes meaning of "To be, or not to be —that is the
question"? Shakespeare? Hamlet? Hamlet, the play? The
reader? All four?
It would appear that a considerable share of "meaning-
making" in poetry is borne by the reader. The activity is called
forth by language that evokes rather than asserts, bringing
into play what the aestheticians call attitudes. The activity
35
Aesthetics, p. 117.
36
The Philosophy of Literary Form, p. 128.
SHAPING A POETIC 50
is given momentum by "how many and how different may be

the tendencies awakened by a situation, and what scope there
is for conflict, suppression and interplay," according to Rich-
ards, 37 or "the maximum heaping up of all these emotional

factors, playing them off against one another, and seeking to
make this active participation itself a major ingredient of the
vision," as Burke puts it. 38 Beardsley defines literature as dis-
course in which "an important part of the meaning is implicit"
and it is the "language of poetry," of all literary genres, in
which implicit meaning "is most fully actualized." 39 Implicit
meaning creates a "semantic thickness," according to Beards-
ley: in plumbing the strata of this thickness, the reader must
contend with a variety of meanings, each championing its own
supremacy. The process is as difficult and as pleasurable as
growth:
Hence the experience of coming to understand a lit-
erary discourse is a kind of growth; not, as with a simple

symbolism, that either we have it or we don't, but a
matter of more or less, of depth or shallowness. All this
is especially true of poetry. 40
The modern aestheticians all evince a change of tone. They

may accept the bipartite division of language function that
characterized earlier poetic theory, but they do not accept the
defensive posture of their predecessors. Poetry does not "tell
the truth" in the same way as other discourse, but this is
hardly cause for apology. Richards and Burke go so far as to
initiate offensive action, asserting that the "truth" of poetry
is moreessential and the repository of a more powerful moral-
ity than that of science and other endeavors that use language
symbolically or referentially.
In Science and Poetry, Richards warns that "reliance on
scientific, symbolic statements is one of the great new dangers
to which civilization is exposed [The truths of poetry]
about human nature, the relations of mind to mind, about the
soul, its rank and destiny . . . which are pivotal points in the
37
Principles of Literary Criticism (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co., 1925),
p. 48.
38 The Philosophy of Literary Form, p. 128.
39 Aesthetics, pp. 125-26.
40 Ibid., p. 129 (emphasis added).
51 SHAPING A POETIC
organization of the mind, toits well being, have suddenly be-
come, for sincere, honest and informed minds, impossible to

41
believe."
Burke's contention is similar but more specific. We need
attitudes, mental and emotional turmoil, to reach moral van-
tage points; the language of science, which offers close-ended
definition instead of provocation, extinguishes the activity
required of the moral man. "Perception without feeling" can
detail, for example, a theory of ballistics as a physical science.
Perception with feeling, with emotionality the poetic ideal —
requires men to consider what it means to use ballistic theory
in the world of their fellow men.
I think Richards and Burke are overzealous in attaching
moral values to the poetic use of language. Both uses of lan-
guage, scientific and poetic, neutral and emotion-laden, can be
perverted. One need merely read Mein Kampf to see the truth
of this. Just as those who assailed poetry as immoral were
wrong, so are the more recently arrived opponents of the lan-
guage of science.
Burke and Richards may go too far, but their point of view
is instructive. Poetry has long lived with the thesis that it is
somehow immoral; the antithetical view is probably a sign of

an emerging, valid synthesis.
Having said so much about how different the language of
poetry is from the language of other discourse, we might well
wonder why poetry is compared to other discourse at all. The
answer suggested at the outset of this chapter is no longer
adequate. Then I said that poetry, like all discourse, uses
words. But if words can be used in such disparate ways, why
use these to make comparisons? Why compare an article in
Popular Mechanics, "How to Build a Picnic Table," with
"Lycidas" or "Ode on a Grecian Urn"? Yet this is precisely
what we have been doing. In our attempt to understand what
characterizes language in poetry, we have been wholly de-
pendent on other discourse as a basis of comparison. The
further our investigation has gone, the more dissimilar, it
seems to me, we have found these different language uses to be.

Language in poetry "means" differently than it does in
—
prose; what it requires of the reader and what it returns to
41
Science and Poetry (New York: W. W. Norton, 1928), pp. 71-72.
SHAPING A POETIC 52
him in pleasure —
is remarkably unlike other uses of language.
Imagine, for example, what life would be like if every time

someone spoke we experienced the maelstrom of associ-
to us
ations, attitudes, and emotions that poetry evokes. The "bloom-
ing buzzing confusion" would exhaust us. We simply cannot
make meaning of everything. In fact most discourse must not
possess semantic thickness but be capable instead of being
immediately and simply comprehended.
Susanne Langer, in Philosophy in a New Key, offers the
first departure from the centuries-old practice of contrasting
poetry with science or philosophy. We may still understand

two ways generally of creating meaning, she says, but these
comprise not scientific and poetic use of language but dis-
cursive and presentational symbolism. For the most part, "dis-
cursive symbolism" is the symbolism of language, words used
to refer to things. "Presentational symbolism" is the symbolism
of painting, dance, music, sculpture —
of nonverbal modes of
communication. Our previous discussion implicitly equated
"meaning" with meaning created by words. Langer expands our
notion of meaning to include all symbolism.
Discursive symbolism uses denotative language; it is what
the other aestheticians refer to as the symbolic or the semantic
— —
information-conveying use of language. Discursive symbol-
ism has definite limitations:
Everybody knows that language is a very poor medium

for expressing our emotional nature. It merely names
certain vaguely and crudely conceived states, but fails
miserably in any attempt to convey the ever-moving pat-
terns, the ambivalences and intricacies of inner experi-
ence, the interplay of feelings with thoughts and
impressions, memories and echoes of memories, transient
fantasy, or its mere traces, all turned into nameless emo-
tional stuff. 42
Yet it is the "nameless emotional stuff" that poetry is all about.

And poetry uses language, the "poor medium for expressing
our emotional nature." How then can poetry be within the
realm of discursive symbolism? It follows that it is not, and
here we have Langer's most substantial contribution to our
42
Susanne Langer, Philosophy in a New Key (New York: Mentor Books, 1951), p. 92.
53 SHAPING A POETIC
poetic: poetry, although it uses words, the usual medium of

discursive symbolism, is more properly conceived of as being
in the realm of presentational symbolism. Poetry "means" in
a way more like music or the visual arts than like other forms
of discourse:
For though the material of poetry is verbal, its import

[meaning] is not the literal assertion made in words, but
the way the assertion is made, and this involves the
sounds, the tempo, the aura of associations of the words
. the wealth or poverty of the transient imagery that
. .
contains them
The material of poetry is discursive, but the product
— the artistic phenomenon — is not; its significance is
purely implicit in the poem

form com-
as a totality, as a
pounded of sound and suggestion, statement and reti-
cence. 43
This poetic casts into limbo our discussion of the truth or

falsity of poetry. The issue of truth is no more (or no less)
relevant to a discussion of poetry than it is to a discussion of
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony or Monet's paintings of water
lilies.
In Feeling and Form, the sequel to Philosophy in a New

Key, Langer's stance is The poet's business
just as emphatic.
is with experience. He takes the semblance of real events and
organizes them into a new reality, the reality of "virtual life"

the life created by the poem and the reader in interaction;
together they establish an experience that may have very little
to do with truth or reality, or even with reasoning —for accord-

ing to Langer, in poetry there is only the semblance of reason-
ing.
We are therefore misguided when we expect great truths
or profound ideas from poetry and measure the worth of any
poem by these criteria. The important thing is the experience
created by the interaction between the the reader. If poem and
poetry were essentially a means of stating ideas (as many have
contended), it should be reasonably compared to logic or
mathematics. But poetry is art and must therefore be seen in
the context of all art.
43
Ibid., pp. 220-21.
—
SHAPING A POETIC 54
What of poems
traditionally thought to be funds of
wisdom? — for
example, those from which the following ex-
cerpts are taken (see pp. 214-15).
The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediment. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Leave me, O Love which reachest but to dust;

And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Of Langer says, "Their messages are familiar to the point

these,
of banality there is no interesting literal content." 44 She
. . .
is perhaps too harsh in her judgment, but the insight is pro-
found. It is wrong to expect great philosophy or new ideas

from a poem. Rather than the idea itself, it is the experience
of having the idea that matters.
Seduction scenes are as old as Eve and Adam, and themes
of mortality have been sung for ages yet when Marvell tells —
his mistress and us, "But at my back I always hear / Time's
winged chariot hurrying near," we may delight in revelation
not because the idea is new to us, but because we may for
the first time be experiencing the idea (which we already
"know") emotionally.
Francis X. Connolly opposes Langer's view, as we might
surmise from just the title of his book: Poetry: Its Power and
44 Feeling and Form: A Theory of Art (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1953), p.
233.
55 SHAPING A POETIC
Wisdom. Connolly would have it that all great poems are also
sources of wisdom; he explains how:
In the past most educated readers treasured their classics

for their wisdom. They read the ancient writers, Virgil
and Horace, the medieval poets of Christendom, Dante
and Chaucer, the Renaissance Englishmen, Shakespeare
and Milton. ... In all these poets readers found wisdom. 45
If Connolly meant something like the wisdom of the human

heart, his pronouncement might be defensible. But the wisdom
he attributes to poetry is reasoned and judgmental. Thus he
says, "At its best, a great poem is a just criticism of life the —
utterance of a great mind pronouncing judgment on the affairs
46
of men."
We should reject the premises of Connolly's argument:
terms like "just criticism" and "judgment" are misleading when
applied to poetry. They set up the wrong criteria for under-
standing, experiencing, and evaluating poetry. William Blake
and LeRoi Jones offer very different views of urban life in
their poems. Yet one is no more "just" than the other, and
both present experience, not "judgment." If we regard the
poems of Blake and Jones as judgmental, we are likely to
disagree with their judgments, to argue, to treat the poems
as we would articles in a journal of the social sciences.
Take this poem by Yeats.
A DEEP-SWORN VOW
Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when grow excited with wine,
I
Suddenly I meet your face.
To my mind this is a fine poem. However, as an "educated

reader," to use Connolly's term, I find immense significance in
this poem simply because it creates in me the experience of the
vow. I too have felt betrayed, and have at times been the
45
Poetry: Its Power and Wisdom, p. 110.
46
Ibid., p. 111.
SHAPING A POETIC 56
betrayer; on the edge of sleep I have been stirred by the ap-

pearance of a face from the past.
But I do not "learn" from the poem; it does not represent
"wisdom"; most certainly, it does not "pronounce judgment."
If the poem were judgmental, its power would diminish for
me. I don't know from the poem what the vow was or under
what circumstances it was sworn. Hence I don't know who
wronged whom. How can I judge? The poet neither pronounces
"judgment on the affairs of men" nor sets forth a "criticism
of life." A host of unknowns is essential to the poem; they
leave room for my imagination, my experience of the broken
vow. As a great architect once said, "Less is more" — I think so,
particularly in "A Deep-Sworn Vow."
If we we should indeed find that
applied Langer's logic,
the "message" of this poem
banal (if we could find some
is
message like "vows must be kept or suffering ensues"). Of

course the very process of reducing poems to messages ba-
nalizes them. As Coleridge says, poetry is untranslatable. We
should apply Coleridge's poetic very seriously, it seems to me.
If poetry is untranslatable, it cannot be made into wisdom or
judgments or even knowledge. It can and does evoke emotions,
and these are part of an experience the reader has because of
and with the poem; there is no translation necessary, since the
created experience is something new, not something transposed
or transmitted.
And not only must we abjure seeking "wisdom" in poetry,
we must (finally) stop insisting that poetry makes statements.
We must not fall into the error of the textbook author who
first gives us this poem by Henry Reed and then asks the stu-
dent to interpret the "statement" the poem makes about war.
NAMING OF PARTS
Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in allof the neighbouring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this

Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
57 SHAPING A POETIC
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling
swivel,
Which inyour case you have not got. The branches 10
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,

Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.
And you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
this
Is toopen the breech, as you see. We can slide it 20
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this

Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
Ifyou have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of
balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-
blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards
and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts. 30
There is a poetic in all this, in the theory of Coleridge,

Richards and Ogden, Beardsley, Burke, Langer, and our own
thoughts. Yet for me, extracting a formulated poetic from the
flow of ideas is a little like transforming a summer rich in
adventure and harvest into the caricature of the essay assign-
ment: "What I Did Last Summer." Nonetheless, there is a
symbolic value in summing up. The assigned essay doesn't so
much recount the summer as signal the fact of autumn and
a new school year.
First, if we agree with Coleridge, poetry is to be distin-
guished from other discourse by its special use of language
not by its meter, nor by its subject matter. This use of language
is excited, precise, and designed primarily to produce pleasure
—
in the reader not to teach him or preach to him.
SHAPING A POETIC 58
Next, in keeping with the work of Beardsley and other

contemporary aestheticians, we have been able to expand the
notion of pleasure that Coleridge initiated. The reader's pleas-
ure comes in large part from his active role in making meaning
of the poem. The poem does not say, "This is the way it is." It
suggests, evokes, inspires the interplay of attitudes and emo-
tions; what emerges from this interplay is the reader's meaning
as well as the poet's. The poem becomes in a sense the reader's.
The pleasure created may thus be said to be the pleasure of
ownership as well as that of activity.
Langer's departure from the basic conception of two kinds
of language use, scientific and poetic, serves as much to
validate as to alter our prior conclusions. By making poetry
more akin to forms of presentational, rather than discursive,
symbolism, her aesthetic suggests that the "meaning" of poetry
is within the realm of the evocative and experiential. Language
as it is used in poetry becomes still more distinctive when

conceived as presentational symbolism, even though it uses
— —
the medium words of discursive symbolism. We are once
and for all, if we agree with Langer, freed of looking for
significant philosophy or ideas in poetry. There are ideas in
poetry, but poetry does not exist to put forth ideas. It is the
experience of the idea, our experiencing the idea as readers,
—
that counts not admiring the idea, agreeing with the idea, or
being taught by the idea.
What now of the Reconnaissance that precedes this chap-
ter? The same question obtains: Is "crickets" a poem?
Applying the poetic developed in this chapter, I would
—
say and this goes only for me, since even if the poetic is
agreed to and conceived of similarly by others, their inter-
—
pretation of its application could differ widely "crickets"
isn't a poem. The language is mildly evocative of the sounds
crickets make, of a whole field of chirrupping, hissing crickets,
but miss the process described by Kenneth Burke as "attain-
I
ing a perspective atop all the conflicts of attitude." For me, no

conflict of attitude, no interplay of emotions, is evoked by
"crickets." I admire the cleverness of the manipulation of
sound; I like the way the poem looks on the page as its s's
move about and, in the middle, take over. But admiring a
cleverly made object and participating actively in the appre-
hension and experiencing of a vision are very different.
59 SHAPING A POETIC
We might ask the same question of "Ah, How Sweet It Is

to Love!" by John Dryden. Because of its formal aspects the —
six-line stanzas rhyming a b a b c c and the meter —
it does not
take us aback as "crickets" probably did. Nonetheless, the

criteria of our poetic can be applied just as they were in
assessing "crickets": Is the language at once precise and
evocative? Are there words, phrases or lines which could be
altered or translated into other words? Does it inspire in us
the interplay of attitudes and emotions which results in our
making our own meaning of it? Although it is clearly verse,
is "Ah, How Sweet It Is to Love!" a poem?
Ah,how sweet it is to love!

Ah,how gay is young Desire?
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach Love's fire!
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown

Do but gently heave the heart:
Ev'n the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart: 10
Lovers, when they lose their breath,

Bleed away in easy death.
Love and Time with reverence use,

Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse
Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein; 20
But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again:
If a flow in age appear,
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
. . .
RECONNAISSANCE
What does this poem mean to you, how does it achieve its effects,
and why do you or do you not consider it to be a successful
poem?
I KNEW A WOMAN
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,

When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,

She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin; 10
Inibbled meekly from her proffered hand;

She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:

Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose 20
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved)
60
61
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:

I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?

These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways)
THEODORE ROETHKE
Ill
THE DILEMMA
OF RESPONSE
This is a fine poem written with deep,
emotional feeling and choice of words that
is only possible for the genuine poet.
I will declare the whole poem to be
sentimental rubbish. More detailed

would be foolish and futile.
criticism
One reading gave me this opinion.
I never hope to read it again.
TWO COLLEGE STUDENTS

RESPONDING TO THE SAME POEM
about poems. Almost no one does, except

It is difficult to talk
the captive who are required to during the
participants
specified hours of an English course. Students capable of
animated and articulate conversations about history, politics,
auto mechanics, fashions, love, and athletics become tongue-
tied when asked to discuss a poem. I have given my students
a copy of a poem, read it aloud, and then waited for a con-
versation about the poem to ensue. Hitherto lively persons sat
in uncomfortable silence, hoping someone else (preferably the
teacher) would make the first comment.
In part, this dilemma is present for all the arts. In re-
sponse to paintings and music, people have difficulty going
beyond "I like it" or "I don't like it." Yet with poems the
problem is intensified. The lever into conversation is harder
to find. The poem is read; after a long silence, someone may
resort to a comment on the poem's form: "Well, this is a
62
63 DILEMMA OF RESPONSE
traditional sonnet." Such a remark is well intentioned — the

person who makes hopes he will provide an opening for
it
other, more substantive, comments.

I have been surprised to discover that the difficulty my
students have talking about poetry is shared even by poets

talking with one another. In fact, it has been my experience
that poets very seldom talk about their poems with each other.
They will readily recount their successes and failures at the
hands of publishers and they will discuss the lives of fellow
poets; but a genuine conversation about poems themselves
does not come easily. An editor-writer associated with a major
magazine once said he chose poems by whether or not they
caused his knees to tingle. The statement is symptomatic of
much poetry talk: the poem either "gets to you" or it doesn't.
What I have learned is that conversations about poetry
are difficult. They are also rewarding. Just as we may want and
need to be able to talk with friends about a person we love,
and just as sharing our feelings about someone we love can
immensely please us, so it is with poetry. We can experience
poetry privately, never attempting to share our excitement with
others, and be content. The poem is then like the damsel in
the high tower who lets her hair down just for us, a private
love that I by no means intend to disparage. But for those of
us who wish to bring the damsel down from the tower and
have her dance and converse among our friends, there is the
challenging task of learning to build the ladder.
Quite simply, we need to study response to poetry, to
learn what happens when people express their reaction to
poems. Knowledge about how others respond to poetry will
help us to articulate and share our own responses.
A major study of response to poetry, made by I. A. Richards
some forty years ago, is exceptional. It is the first of its kind,
and it is also the most thorough and comprehensive of such
studies. The findings are reported in Richards' book Practical
Criticism.
In the introduction to Practical Criticism, Richards tells
us that "it is as a step towards training and technique in
. . .
discussion that I would best like this book to be regarded."

And so we shall regard it.
Richards was teaching at Cambridge University, England,

at the time he conceived of his experiment with response to
DILEMMA OF RESPONSE 64
poetry, and the students who participated in it were all

Cambridge undergraduates. The experiment itself was straight-
forward. Richards gave his students poems to read and take
away with them. He asked that the students write careful
responses to the poems and return these written responses to
him. Aware that judgments of poems are often made on the
basis of who the poet is, rather than on the poem itself,
Richards omitted the titles of the poems and the names of
the authors. He also modernized the spelling in some of the
older poems. Thus the poems presented to the students were
as anonymous as possible; the students could not rely on
clues of authorship or historical period and had to look closely
at the poems themselves.
The poems that Richards used range from some very good
ones (my judgment, using the criteria developed in the pre-
ceding chapter) to some clearly passionless, empty pieces of
verse. Among the former, for example, is John Donne's "Holy
Sonnet VII"; among those I personally don't like is one by
Christina Rossetti, which begins
Gone were but the Winter,

Come were but the Spring,
I would to a covert
Where the birds sing.
Whether the students judged individual poems as good or bad,

they were, on the whole, enthusiastic about their assignment.
Most of the students gave each poem at least four readings;
and although no student in Richards' classes was required
either to read the poems or write responses to them, 60 percent
chose to do so.
In Practical Criticism, Richards shows us the poems he
used, gives samples of the responses (which he calls "proto-
cols"), and discusses them. At the end of the book, he general-
izes about the problems that have emerged in responding to
poetry. Although Richards edited the protocols somewhat, he
assures us that he has tried to present them as fairly as possi-
ble, perhaps slighting only those that did not take a strong
position on a poem. As we will notice, the protocols Richards
cites are left in their original state, with spelling and punctua-
tion errors unchanged.
Richards used thirteen poems in all, and it is surprising
to see that response to many of them was fairly equally divided

between those he labels "favourable" and those he labels
"unfavourable." Response to Poem 4, which we shall look
at here, evoked roughly 53 percent favorable and 42 percent
unfavorable response. Five percent of the protocols about this
poem Richards describes as "noncommittal."
Poem 4, we was kept from
learn (although this information
the protocol-writers), from More Rough Rhymes of a Padre,
is
by G. A. Studdert Kennedy. Richards disguised a reference to

the First World War in the first line of the second verse and
omitted a fifth verse; here is the poem as presented to his
students.
There was rapture of spring in the morning

When we told our love in the wood.
For you were the spring in my heart, dear lad,
And I vowed that my life was good.
But there's winter now in the evening,
And lowering clouds overhead,
There's wailing of wind in the chimney-nook
And I vow that my life lies dead.
For the sun may shine on the meadow lands

And the dog-rose bloom in the lanes,
But I've only weeds in my garden, lad,
Wild weeds that are rank with the rains.
One solace there is for me, sweet but faint,
As it floats on the wind of the years,
A whisper that spring is the last true thing
And that triumph is born of tears.
I think we can readily predict along what line response

to this poem was divided. Do we like, "For you were the
spring in my heart, dear lad," or don't we? Does
it express
genuine sentiment, evoking fresh, youthful companionship, or

is it sentimental, bereft of genuine feeling? The following
protocols illustrate how Richards' students felt (the numbering

system is Richards': the first number refers to the poem, the
second, to the protocol-writer):
4.1 It's a sham. Sentimentality recollected in a very senti-
mental tranquillity. // the girl's life indeed lay dead she

—
would not write like that. Why, she's thoroughly enjoying

—
herself more than I am. Not one tear in the whole piece.
It's pseudo, it pretends, its values are worthless. False
coin. Low, mimic, stuff. 1
4.11 —
A sigh a great sigh, despairing and tremulous. That
is what these lines seem to mean. The sigh though is put
into words and these seem to convey to us a sense of some
ineffable sorrow, too deep for words. Blighted hopes
which seemed in the spring so rapturous now have sunk
into the hopelessness the utter hopelessness of the
words "And I vow that my life lies — dead."
It is the very fact that the words are so quiet and yet
hopeless that lends such poignancy to it. No passionate
utterance but a stony blank grief. And yet despite this in
the last stanza a faint trembling hope is put forth and
this must be so for "hope springs eternal in the human
breast."
Above all in this piece one feels a keen sense, as it
were, of some deserted ruins, stark and bare, the wind
moaning, the sky lowering and a vivid sense of decayed
splendour.
Richards observes that seldom has the adage one man's meat
isanother man's poison been so beautifully demonstrated:
4.12 An invitation to a debauch which one can hardly

claim credit for declining.
4.13 This is a fine poem written with deep, emotional

feeling and a choice of words that is only possible for the
genuine poet.
Two more of the antiphonous protocols deserve quoting:
4.16 This piece alone of all the four got me straight

away. It is very effective indeed obviously sincere and —
very pleasant to read. The theme, though somewhat obvi-
ous is one that can never be hackneyed, especially when
1
This and the following protocols are from I. A. Richards, Practical Criticism (New
York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1929, 1952), pp. 50-58.
so originally and pleasantly treated as in this case. The

ending is very good and strong which always is a strong
point. It has a lilt in it which is very pleasant when read-
ing provided it is not overdone.
4.61 As
(1) I am only 19.
(2)1 have never been in love.

(3 ) I do not know what a dog-rose is.
(4) I consider that spring has no rapture.

(5) is bad and unnecessary.
the alliteration
(6) symbolism is utterly worthless.
this
I will declare the whole poem to be sentimental rubbish.
More detailed criticism would be foolish and futile. One

reading gave me this opinion. I never hope to read it
again.
These and the many more protocols similar to

results,
these, unsettled Richards. He is dismayed to find that "poetry
should seem such a remote, mysterious, unmanageable thing
to so large a majority of readers," and weeps doubly because
his protocol-writers were "with few exceptions the products . . .
of the most expensive kind of education." 2

Other eminent critics commiserate and agree. Stanley
Edgar Hyman tells us that "what the protocols reveal, by and
large, is probably the most shocking picture, exhaustively docu-
mented, of the general reading of poetry ever presented." 3
Most recently, in an article entitled, "On Rereading I. A.
Richards," Rene Wellek affirms that the protocols manage
"conclusively to prove the disorientation which affects students
as soon as they are deprived of names, their authority, and
their anchorage in history." 4 The list could go on. To my
amazement, I have been unable to discover anyone who takes
issue with this interpretation of the protocols. Most literary
questions find advocates on both sides.
Strangely, I find myself virtually in complete disagree-
ment with Richards, Hyman, Wellek, and the others. I say
"strangely" because the opening of this chapter asserte'd pre-
2
Practical Criticism, pp. 291-92.
3
The Armed Vision, abr., rev. ed. (New York: Knopf, 1955), p. 291.
4
"On Rereading I. A. Richards," Southern Review, 3, No. 3 (July 1967), p. 550.
what we are told the protocols demonstrate that talking

cisely —
about poems is very difficult to do and usually not done well.
However, in this case I think Richards' students did very well
indeed.
I don't know where the vitality, humor, and insight of the
protocols comes from, but it is clearly there. It may be
peculiar to British grammar school and university education,
or it may be
a product of Richards' own teaching. But the
poem not lost on any reader who can write the series of
is
"As's" we find in protocol 4.61, or the succinct, abrasive sum-

ming up of 4.12.
As I understand it, Richards and the others for whom the
protocols are a display of poetic insensitivity are reacting to
two facts about the protocols: (1) they show widely divergent
opinions of a single poem, and (2) they are emotional rather
than closely reasoned. I would maintain that these two facts
are precisely what make the protocols vital and encouraging.
First of all, why should we expect art to be apprehended
in a similar manner by We
do not have to
different people?
get into the issue of critical relativism here, although I admit
the question hints at it. If we speak just of poetry, and are

loyal to the poetic of the last chapter, we do not have to get
into broad historical questions of shifting taste, combative
critics, and the like. Language as it is used in poetry requires
of the reader that his response be subjective, based on his
own attitudes. Assuming that each of us is unique in important
ways, each of us will respond differently to a poem that by its
very nature brings out what is individual and personal in us.
The next matter is inseparable from the first. If response
is to be subjective, it will also be emotional —
this too is basic
to how poetry means. Poetry "means" by making us make
meaning of it; and for us to make meaning of the poem, we
must experience conflicts of attitudes and strong emotions.
Perhaps the protocols written in response to Poem 4 are a
bit heavy on the emotional side (remember that Burke urges,
finally, "a perspective atop the conflicts of attitude"), but they
most certainly do not portray readers who find the poem
"remote," "mysterious," or "unmanageable." The passion with
which the protocol-writers leapt to their task, underlining and
capitalizing words and phrases when they felt they could not
get enough of themselves into more conventional prose, is
testimony to the fact that the poem was immediate and cer-
tainly manageable as a stimulus of discussion.
The students did not disagree about the poem because
they misunderstood it; this, I think, is an important point.
Sometimes we simply don't "get" a poem. Its vocabulary may
be too remote (by the time we've looked up enough words in
the dictionary, we find we are responding to Webster rather
than to the poem). Or its symbolism may be too learned, too
arcane for those outside a particular kind of scholarship (T. S.
Eliot's "The Wasteland," for example, presents many readers
with this problem). Or the poem's structure may be too com-
plicated or experimental; it thus becomes as much puzzle as
—
poem. But such is not the case here all the protocol-writers
"got" the poem. They knew what it is about, in the sense that
a poem can be about anything. Apart from the humorous con-
fession by the nineteen-year-old that he does not know what a
dog-rose is, is no indication that the poem baffled the
there
They felt they understood it and were quali-
protocol-writers.
fied to comment on it —
which means that the differences
among the protocols are profound, not to be eliminated by
providing each reader with a "key" to the poem (as in the
endless footnotes that accompany some poems, and the actual
manuals that have been produced to help readers "under-
stand" poems).
If we think in terms of semantic thickness, the protocols
are products of the deepest levels of meaning; they represent
response to the evocative power of the language in the poem.
In virtually every instance, we are confronted by the reader's
attitudes and associations.
The poem's reference to seasons was particularly evocative.
Protocol writer 4.41, not previously quoted, says, "Seasons and
sun affect me more than anything, and in this I can feel the
spring, the best season of life and nature"; and 4.5, "A little
poem does do for my feelings, what spring does for

like this
flowers." And, returning to 4.61, we have the forthright if
iconoclastic attitude that "spring has no rapture."
If "truth" has any meaning in poetry, that meaning must
be closely related to the passion described by Coleridge; a
poem is "true" when its genuine feelings can be perceived and
shared by the reader. The protocol-writers are quick to respond
to whether or not the emotion of the poem is genuine. The
line "And I vow that my life lies dead" is "sham" for writer 4.1
because the feeling is false; someone who was truly suffering
would not describe his life in that fashion. For the author of
4.11, the same line creates an emotion "too deep for words,"
an expression of "utter hopelessness."
—
The last two lines of the poem "A whisper that spring is
the last true thing / And that triumph is born of tears" was —
similarly divisive. Protocol-writer 4.5 finds that "one's feelings
rush out to endorse those last two lines," whereas 4.23 tells
us that the whole poem is a conglomeration of "conventional
trappings and catchwords of romance" capped by closing lines
that rhyme but are devoid of feeling: " 'Thing' " means exactly
nothing but it rhymes with spring so there it is." Yet another
protocol-writer (4.27) attributes the poem's perfection in large

part to "the last two lines. ... It leaves no final impression of
sadness, but of greatness."
So that therewill be no effort wasted in speculating about
how respond to the poem, I will state that I agree with those
I
students who found it empty of genuine emotion, conventional

in the extreme, and riddled by phrases and words that exist
to maintain the rhyme and metrics of the poem but that add
nothing to its evocative power.
But more important than the "favourable," "unfavour-
able," or "noncommittal" categories is the how of the protocols.
It is how the students were able to talk about the poem, and
not whether they liked or did not like it, that informs us. And
in this regard I maintain that they responded to the poem as
—
one must respond to all poems allowing attitudes and emo-
tions free play, understanding why such attitudes and emotions
were evoked by the poem, and achieving a perspective on the
poem from the interplay of these feelings.
It occurs to me that there might be a third reason, in
addition to the lack of unanimity and the emotionalism of the
protocols, for Richards' disappointment in them. He may have
been disheartened because the students did not echo his feel-
ings about the poems he presented to them. A friend of mine
once set up an exhibit of modern paintings at a gallery, paint-
ings that were, I think, surrealistic. (I can still see the one
that depicted a series of gas stations over which hovered an
olive [pimento-stuffed] floating in space.) I asked her some-
thing like, "Where did you get this junk?" My question, in-
tended to be funny, proved tactless and offensive. These were

not my friend's paintings, yet she had a great stake in them,
having set up the exhibit. So it is with poems we offer others.
We want those with whom we share poems to share our re-
sponse to them. From the editorial comments interspersed
among the protocols, I gather that in many instances Richards
was more appreciative of certain rhetorical devices and of a
kind of formalism in the poetry than were his students.
The fact remains that the protocols demonstrate the ve-
racity of a poetic to which Richards himself contributes. They
corroborate that the language of poetry is, in Richards' own
term, "emotive." Further, the protocols show that it is the
meaning of poetry, that meaning co-created by the poem and
the reader, that matters most. In almost every case, the
protocol-writers spoke of what the poem meant to them
what meaning the seasons, friendship, love, and sorrow were
given by their experience with the poem. Significantly absent
are comments about meter, figures of speech, the stanzaic
organization of the poem. In the instance when rhyme is men-
tioned, it is because the rhyme appears to that protocol-writer
as an impediment to meaning. I don't think Richards' students
avoided talking about the poem's meter, for example, because
scansion and metrical analysis is especially difficult (this
particular poem, in fact, is uncomplicated metrically). The
protocols dealt with the poem's meaning because that is its
most basic quality: making meaning is what responding to
poetry is all about.
Before moving from Practical Criticism to other examples
of response to poetry, I must, in fairness to Richards, say some-
thing of his general contentions. At the end of the book, he
classifies various kinds of obstacles that present themselves to
the reader of poetry. Among these are "Irrelevant Associations
and Stock Responses," "Sentimentality and Inhibition," "Doc-
trine in Poetry" and "Presuppositions and Preconceptions." Out
—
of context that is, apart from interpretation of specific proto-
cols — I find all of Richards' general concerns valid and im-
mensely helpful.
For example, having developed a poetic that asserts that
the stuff of poetry is not ideas per se, but the experience of an
idea, we can well understand how doctrine should not be
allowed to impede our understanding and appreciation of a
poem. Dante should not be lost to atheists, nor Shakespeare

to anarchists. Five-star generals should be open to appreciation
of Wilfred Owen's poems, and Ku Klux Klansmen should be
able to read Langston Hughes. My "should" is emphatic and
idealistic. In point of fact, cannot imagine a Klansman
I
responding to the poetry of any black writer. On the other

hand, many, many non-Catholics are enormously moved by the
poetry of Dante. Obviously the reader who allows doctrinal
differences to bar him from a poet's work does not believe in
the poetic established here. For he is treating the poem as
though it were a political speech, as strictly discursive rather
than presentational symbolism.
The categories including irrelevant associations, senti-
mentality, and preconceptions are more difficult to apply. How
do we know whether an association is irrelevant or relevant?
Or if we are being sentimental? Or when our preconceptions
are acting as an impediment? Each of us has private associa-
tions, sentimental attachments, and preconceptions. Since
these are to some degree emotional and subjective elements of
response, how can we judge them rationally? After all, our
response to poetry should be emotional and subjective.
Consider, for example, the protocol-writer who stated that
for him spring held no rapture. We might imagine that his
assertion was born of past associations with springtime; per-
haps a love affair was shattered in June or a death occurred, or,
less specifically, spring may simply never have lived up to its
promise of flowers and sunshine. Confronted by a poem in
which a central image is that of joyous spring, what is he to
do? The reader cannot disown his past, a part of himself. And
yet he may lose something if he dismisses the poem solely
on the basis of his past association. (The protocol-writer in
question, it will be remembered, invoked several other reasons
for his dislike of the poem.)
Or there is the associational problem reversed with "The
Wasteland," which begins, "April is the crudest month,
breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land " Imagine how this
line affects the multitude of readers who are imbued from

earliest childhood with the most positive associations with
spring. How do these readers ever come to share Eliot's vision?
We have here the dilemma of response. Our poetic tells us
to be emotional, personal, and subjective in responding to
poetry. Yet somehow we must be more than this if we are

ever to experience those poems that don't fit our preconcep-
tions, that jar our associations, that go contrary to our
attitudes.
This dilemma confronts readers often, except perhaps
those who have found a favorite poet who "fits" and confine
themselves to his work only. The dilemma may be raised by a
single word or image in the poem, or by a line, as well as by
the meaning made of the poem in its entirety. I have even seen
the title of a poem alone cause grave associational difficulties
for a reader. The dilemma can also be raised by factors not
strictly within the poem at all: knowledge about the poet and
the context in which the poem was written (dimensions that
Richards eliminated in Practical Criticism) can have a pro-
found effect on the reader.
Among my students, "Daddy," by Sylvia Plath, has been
immensely problematic; it has produced all the kinds of re-
sponse which Richards warns against.
DADDY
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before had time
I
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one grey toe
Big as a Frisco seal 10
And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend 20
—
Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,
Icould hardly speak.
Ithought every German was you.
And the language obscene 30
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
*
I may be a bit of a Jew. 40
I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat moustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, You
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you. 50
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,
A cleft your chin instead of your foot

in
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do. 60
But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root.
The voices just can't worm through. 70
If I've killed one man, I've killed two

The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through. 80
Even a reader who has never heard of Sylvia Plath is
likely to view this poem as autobiographical. What of the

reader who knows something of Plath's life her difficult —
marriage to the poet Ted Hughes; her several attempts to kill
herself, culminating in suicide at age thirty-one? The student
who brought "Daddy" to the poetry class was concurrently
taking a course on women's literature and had learned a lot
about Sylvia Plath. To share the poem with the rest of us, she
began by recounting some of the details of Plath's relationship
—
with men in particular, her husband and her father.
Another student, a believer in "New Criticism," which
allows discussion only of the poem, interjected that knowledge
of Plath's life was irrelevant or, worse, an obstacle to our
experiencing the poem for ourselves. In the ensuing battle it
also came to light that the student who brought the poem to
us had an investment in it larger than her studies of women's
literature. In Plath's "Daddy" she saw her own father, and
had first read the poem at a critical point in her feelings
toward him. Thus the issue was complex: strands of New
Criticism versus traditional criticism, interwoven with objec-

tive distance versus personal identification. The argument was
not so issue-oriented as this, however, and the emotions that
erupted brought about a volatile and important exchange.
Even if there were a right and a wrong in matters of this
sort, I am not sure I could pronounce a winner. The processes
of response are different in each instance.
For the student who knew Plath's biography, it was clear
poem had not literally been a Nazi, no
that the "daddy" in the
more than Plath was Jewish. The last four stanzas refer to
Plath's first emotional breakdown and suicide attempt, to her
marriage (the second man in the poem), and to the fact that
her marriage was poisoned by destructive emotions similar to
those she felt for her father.
The student ignorant of the biography had more work to
do. Was "daddy" a Nazi, literally, and had his daughter by some
quirk been Jewish? Or had she converted to Judaism? What is
meant by "And I said I do, I do" and "If I've killed one man,
I've killed two"? Why does the poem seem to begin in the
United States ("Frisco seal," "freakish Atlantic") and then
draw its images from Germanic cities and countries?
We might infer that the reader who had not previously
read of Plath's life was the more fortunate, because without
certain factual details there was more meaning to make of the
poem. But it can also be argued that knowledge of certain
facts helps the reader move easily into the more wholly
emotive realm of the poem. He does not have to figure out
details that make the poem a bit like a puzzle, and can deal
from the outset with its emotive import.
As often happens in discussions about a poem, one line
emerged as emblematic of the whole. In the case of "Daddy,"
that line was "Every woman adores a Fascist." All the students
experienced a strong reaction, often a mixed, conflicting re-
What does it mean? What does it say about
action, to the line.
women and men? I will accept the risk of repetitiveness by
emphasizing again that the question of meaning is not synony-
mous with the question of truth as we usually define it. The
students did not say, for example, "Why of course the state-
ment is nonsense; all the women I know are appalled by
Fascism." They properly did not treat the line as an asser-
—
tion of fact but as a presentational symbol words used to
evoke rather than to state a meaning. But then what does the
line evoke? Plath's masochism? Feelings of guilt on the part
of the readers, either because as women they have enjoyed
or tolerated brutal treatment by men, or because as men they
have been brutal toward women? A recognition of the am-
bivalence, the mixture of love and hate, that infuses most com-
plex relationships?
To the members of the class, the line, in the context of the
whole, meant all of these things. That is, the students were
able to make many meanings, each somewhat different but
none necessarily incompatible with the others. From these a
further, more complex, meaning was drawn that can be put in
the form of a question: Who can tell the persecuted from the
persecutor? "Every woman adores a Fascist" is an immensely
rich line, and one that brought the students together, whether
they were of the suasion of New Criticism or more traditional
in their approach. Sharing response, they achieved collectively
—
what each of us aims for individually the heaping of meaning
on meaning, drawing meanings out of the poem as a whole,
attending to the single line, returning those meanings to the
broader context.
In the process, the division between the more dispas-
sionate and scholarly and the more emotionally involved stu-
dents broke down: Who can be objective, confronted by the
word "Fascist"? Who can be objective about the images,
memories, and associations of his father evoked by a poem?
There was no consensus reached in terms of Richards' "favour-
able," "unfavourable," and "noncommittal" categories (except
that no one was "noncommittal"), but each participant had to
confront his own conflicts of attitude and truly attain that
moral "perspective atop" these conflicts of which Kenneth
Burke speaks. I think "moral" is an appropriate term here,
not to designate a superior or righteous vision, but as a mark-
ing point in the difficult struggle to understand human pas-
sions.
The dilemma of response, of how to go beyond our per-
sonal associations was,I must add, not resolved. Struggle alone
is not enough, although it is a fine beginning.

With another group of students I was startled to find that
we were bogged down by personal associations evoked by
simply the title of a poem.
—— — ——
TO ELSIE
The pure products of America
go crazy
mountain folk from Kentucky
or the ribbed north end of

Jersey
with its isolate lakes and
valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves

old names
and promiscuity between
devil-may-care men who have taken 10
to railroading
out of sheer lust of adventure
and young slatterns, bathed

in filth
from Monday to Saturday
to be tricked out that night

with gauds
from imaginations which have no
peasant traditions to give them

character 20
but flutter and flaunt
sheer rags —succumbing without

emotion
save numbed terror
under some hedge of choke-cherry

or viburnum
which they cannot express
Unless it be that marriage

perhaps
with a dash of Indian blood 30
will throw up a girl so desolate

so hemmed round
with disease or murder
that she'll be rescued by an

agent
reared by the state and
DILEMMA OF RESPONSE
sent out at fifteen to work in

some hard-pressed
house in the suburbs
some doctor's family, some Elsie
voluptuous water
expressing with broken
brain the truth about us

her great
ungainly hips and flopping breasts
addressed to cheap
jewelry
and rich young men with fine eyes
as if the earth under our feet

were 90
an excrement of some sky

and we degraded prisoners
destined
to hunger until we eat filth
while the imagination strains

after deer
going by fields of goldenrod in
the stifling heat of September

Somehow
it seems to destroy us H
It is only in isolate flecks that

something
is given off
No one
to witness
and adjust, no one to drive the car
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
Who could have predicted that there would be a student

unable to read this poem without a vision of the Borden's
milk trademark grinning before his eyes? Yet there it was,
Elsie the cow, forever jolly and wearing a wreath of daisies
around her horns. The rest of us were not amused. We im-
mediately attacked this student, accusing him of falling prey
to one of the principal vices outlined by Richards: Elsie the

cow was an "irrelevant association."
On the contrary, he contended; the name is there, and
it's not a common name. In fact, throughout his life he had
never known an Elsie other than Borden's. Furthermore, his
initial response is lent support by the poem's first line, "The
pure products of America." Milk is a product and we are
inundated by dairy advertisements which claim that milk is
the one pure food, nature's own. Why couldn't the meaning of
this poem be conceived as a satirical presentation of Elsie the
cow's infusion into American life? But most of all, the stu-
dent argued, there was nothing he could do about his associa-
tion; for him a cow was evoked, and that was that.
The person who had brought the poem in to us was
wounded by this (judging only by the fates of "Daddy" and
"Elsie," sharing poems is a risky business). He regarded the
association as no less than a profanation of the poem. The
poem's meaning was not only endangered for the student
haunted by Borden's cow, but for the rest of us now that we
had been exposed to that association.
poem? Probably yes,
Is the association irrelevant to the
since the poem
not satirical and seems to present a somber
is
if not tragic situation. In other words, there is little in the
body of the poem to support such a way of making meaning

of it. I would not judge Borden's Elsie as unequivocally ir-
relevant, however. Who knows? That symbol, so corny and
still so ingrained in the culture of America, could mean many
things for a reader, could even evoke a sense of despair (for
someone who has seen the large plastic Elsies that used to be
part of billboard advertisements, the plastic cow is not in-
compatible with one of the poem's meanings).
Beyond Borden's, who is Elsie? Is she a "pure product of
America" who has gone crazy? Or is she one of the "young
slatterns, bathed / in filth"? Both? If Elsie is the "pure prod-
uct" gone bad, corrupted by "cheap jewelry," who are the
"degraded prisoners"? Is Elsie us? Or are we part of "some
doctor's family" in the suburbs, hiring domestic help and if —
so, again, who are the "prisoners"?
To answer these questions is to make meanings of the
poem. It is not to "puzzle" it out —there are no symbols,
references, or allusions that require more information. This

is a more profound process than figuring something out. It
is putting something in: ourselves. Making meaning requires
a great deal of our imaginative resources as responsive readers.

One of the meanings that can be made of this poem is
expressed by the same question inspired by "Daddy": How
can we tell the persecuted from the persecutor? We can view
Elsie —as the poetry class did—as a victim of cumulative forces
of exploitation: the inbreeding of her mountain folk, seduction
by railroad men, lack of cohesive traditions, state welfare
agencies, the middle class. We are still left with the ominous
"we degraded prisoners." It may be a system in which all are
victims.
No matter how we go in making meanings, we cannot
far
say, "This is what means." Even if we accept generally the
it
meaning I just spoke of, and somehow take account of the

immensely evocative closing stanzas of the poem as well, we
have not made the meaning. A
Marxist can come along and
say the poem means that capitalism is dead, that the poem
is "about" the destruction of the class system and the mate-
rialism it breeds. Someone else can make a racial meaning of

the poem, or can talk about it as illustrative of the failure of
agrarian society. Another can decide that the poem portrays
the evils of industrialism. It would appear to be impossible to
define the boundaries of response.
As a further example of the readers' dilemma, consider
this poem.
THE SHEEP CHILD

Farm boys wild to couple
With anything with soft-wooded trees
With mounds of earth mounds
of pinestraw will keep themselves off
Animals by legends of their own:
In the hay-tunnel dark
And dung of barns, they will
Say I have heard tell
That in a museum in Atlanta

Way back in a corner somewhere 10
There's this thing that's only half

.
Sheep like a woolly baby

Pickled in alcohol because
Those things can't live his eyes
Are open but you can't stand to look
I heard from somebody who . .
But this is now almost all

Gone. The boys have taken
Their own true wives in the city,
The sheep are safe in the west hill 20
Pasture but we who were born there

Still are not sure. Are we,
Because we remember, remembered
In the terrible dust of museums?
Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may

Be saying saying
/ am here, in my father's house.

I who am half of your world, came deeply
To my mother in the long grass
Of the west pasture, where she stood like moon-
light 30
Listening for foxes. It was something like love

From another world that seized her
From behind, and she gave, not lifting her head
Out of dew, without ever looking, her best
Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped
her face
Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound
Of sobbing of something stumbling
Away, began, as she must do,
To carry me. I woke, dying,
In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes 40
Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment

The great grassy world from both sides,
Man and beast in the round of their need,
And the hill wind stirred in my wool,
My hoof and my hand clasped each other,
I ate one meal
Of milk, and died
Staring. From dark grass I came straight
To my father's house, whose dust

Whirls up in the halls for no reason 50
When no one comes piling deep in a hellish

mild corner,
And, through my immortal waters,
I meet the sun's grains eye
To eye, and they fail at my closet of glass.
Dead, I am most surely living
In the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives
Them like wolves from the hound bitch and calf
And from the chaste ewe in the wind.
They go into woods into bean fields they go
Deep into their known right hands. Dreaming
60
of me,
They groan they wait they suffer
Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind.
JAMES DICKEY
The first problem confronted by most readers is making

meaning of the narrative persona, that is, the speaking voice.
Who's talking at the beginning, before the indentation? One
of the farm boys now grown and in the city? The sheep-child
itself? A third party, telling about both the farm boys and the
sheep-child from the outside? Readers have argued for all these
alternatives. I think it's a farm boy looking back, and rest my
case on the lines "Are we, / Because we remember, remem-
bered / In the terrible dust of museums?" But why then does
this persona refer to "the boys," instead of saying "we"
throughout? Many readers contend that it is the sheep-child
who speaks and no one else; that before the indentation, the
sheep-child describes the context of the story that begins, "I am
here, in my father's house."
Apart from the meaning we must make of the narrative
persona, and the obviously startling drama of the events pre-
sented by the poem, what has intrigued me most in talking
about this poem with other readers is a specifically Christian
interpretation of its meaning. What if we take the sheep-child
to be Christ?
To make meaning of the poem this way may strike us as
outlandish, if not sacrilegious, but it is nonetheless within the
realm of possibility. Christ is after all the Lamb of God. Mov-
ing through the poem from the beginning, let me suggest how
a Christ-as-sheep-child meaning may be drawn from it.
a legend of conception, birth, death, and afterlife with

It is
which we're presented. The sheep-child speaks from his "fa-
ther's house" and belongs only half to the world of men. The
sheep-child, like Christ, was conceived in "something like love /
From another -world." Christ knew he must die for the sins
of men; the sheep-child "woke, dying," for man's sins. Dead,
the sheep-child is returned to his "father's house," whence he
views the world through "immortal waters." Dead, he is "most
surely living"; dreaming of him, mankind goes on: "they suf-
fer I Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind."
If we accept this meaning at all, we must recognize that
in terms of semantic thickness it is one of the lower layers. At
the surface, using Coleridge's working principles of "grammar,
logic,psychology and good sense," we can make a much
simpler meaning. The poem presents the phenomenon of
sodomy between boys and sheep. Out of this union a freak is
born that for genetic reasons cannot live. The freak is con-
signed to a bottle of formaldehyde {"immortal waters") that
preserve it in a museum {"my father's house"). Dead and
pickled, the freak yet lives in the minds of the boys who com-
mitted sodomy with sheep or knew of the act. It is an emblem
of the great societal taboo.
There is a maxim of logic
—"Occam's razor" —which says
that when alternative solutions present themselves, the sim-
plest is best. The truth of this is incontestable —in logic. But
a poem is not logical discourse, nor do we seek a solution. We
seek meanings, and it would appear that many can coexist.
Is there no such thing then as a maverick reading, an abso-
lutely untenable meaning of a poem? Of "The Sheep Child"
alone, there are meanings upon meanings that can be made.
In addition to the two I've just outlined, I have heard readers
venture meanings based on the legend of Atlantis (the museum
is in Atlanta), racial miscegenation (offered by a reader who
knew and alleged racial at-

of the poet's Southern origins
and women's liberation (the sheep is the passive
titudes),
woman). Can we say one of these is to be preferred over the
others?
It may be objected at this point that all the poems we
have discussed are relatively long ones and that shorter poems
do not spawn such a prodigy of meanings. The objection can
be met by considering one of the shortest poems I know.
IN A STATION AT THE METRO

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
EZRA POUND
The title alone carries us considerably into making meanings

of this poem. The faces crowd are those of subway
in the
passengers. They are the petals; perhaps the subway car itself
is the black bough. Or the black bough may be the tunnel; the
passengers may be standing on the platform. There are mean-

ings to be made of the dominant metaphor: faces presented
as petals, the subway car or station as a "wet, black bough"
but the metaphor is not, I think, as rich in meanings as the
word "apparition."
Is "apparition" used positively or negatively here? An
apparition can be frightening, ghostly, as well as pleasing. It
can be a haunting specter or a beatific vision. How the reader
makes meaning of "apparition" must be consonant with the
meaning made of the rest of the poem; but more important,
it will determine the meaning of the poem as a whole. If
"apparition" is made to mean something ghostly, the "wet,

black bough" becomes ominous, even slimy. If the reader
makes a meaning of "apparition," the petals become
positive
rosy faces and the bough is wonderfully glistening, as if after
a rainfall. It is not overblown, if we take the metro station to
mean the world, to say that the poem can be a vision either of
the hope or of the failure of humanity. Or it can be a vision
of both: the two meanings are not mutually exclusive; the
positive and negative connotations of "apparition" can collab-
orate to create a complex and possibly ambivalent virtual
reality.
Knowing, as I what the author of the poem himself
do,
says about its meaning, it would be disingenuous of me not
to include his comment. Here is what Ezra Pound tells us:
Three years ago in Paris I got out of a "Metro" train at

La Concord, and saw suddenly a beautiful face, and then
another and another, and then a beautiful child's face,
and then another beautiful woman, and I tried all day to
find words for what this had meant to me, and I could
not find any words that seemed to me worthy, or as lovely

as that sudden emotion I wrote a thirty-line poem and
destroyed it because it was what we call work "of second
intensity." Six months later I made a poem half that
length; a year later I made the following . . . sentence:
"The apparition of these faces

in the crowd: Petals on a wet,
black bough."
I daresay meaningless unless one has drifted into a

it is
certain vein of thought. In a poem of this sort one is

trying to record the precise instant when a thing outward
and objective transforms itself, or darts into a thing in-
ward and subjective. 5
Does Pound's account limit the meanings the poem can evoke?
It is likely to, if we read his account before we read the poem
itself — knowledge of Sylvia Plath's life served some-
just as a
what to direct response to "Daddy." But I don't think we
should necessarily take a poet's word for what his poem
means. Or at least that should not be the final word. Poets
consistently find that their poems mean things they did not
know they meant; and, further, the poem does
not have mean-
ing only for the poet. Meaning ultimately resides with the
reader, who must select among the factors he will permit to
influence the meanings he makes and who must choose among
meanings.
Here is a poem by William Carlos Williams, only slightly
less brief than Pound's.
RED WHEELBARROW
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
5
Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren, Understanding Poetry (New York: Holt,
Rinehart and Winston, 1960), p. 90, quoting Ezra Pound, Gaudier -Brzeska (London:
John Lane, 1916), pp. 100, 103.
We cannot avoid the obvious: "What depends?" The meanings

the reader makes of this question determine the meanings of
the poem. Even so short, so seemingly matter-of-fact, so im-
mediate a poem as this requires that the reader make mean-
ings.
What could "depend" on the vision really like a stark, —
—
even primitive painting that Williams presents? For me, one
possible meaning has to do with color. So much of our visual
world depends on the kind of contrast of color presented in
this poem by the red of the wheelbarrow and the white of the
chickens. Another meaning could be that of order; the integrity
of order in the world rests on just such simple arrangements
as these. Or a meaning could be implicit in the juxtaposition
of the mechanical and metallic (the wheelbarrow) and the
natural and organic (rainwater, chickens). These meanings,
the meanings I make in response to the poem, hardly answer
the question "What depends?" But we seek meanings, not
answers, and I'm certain the meanings I offer are only be-
ginnings.
Let me anticipate another objection to all this making of
meanings. The poems discussed thus far have been modern
ones. We have not tried our poetic out on more traditional
poetry. Let us then look at a poem by Shakespeare.
SONNET 35
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense
Thy adverse party is thy advocate
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That an accessory needs must be
I
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
With all of Shakespeare's work, and perhaps more so with

the sonnets, there is the temptation to be a historian concerned
with facts rather than a reader who brings his "whole soul"
into the activity of making meaning. The historian's approach

is lauded, for example, by A. L. Rowse: "The proper method
[of understanding the sonnets] an historical one: to take
is
each poem one by one, to follow it humbly line by line, watch-

ing for every piece of internal information and for its co-
herence with what is happening in the external world, checking
for consistency at every point, accumulating patiently every
fact and what may legitimately be inferred, until the whole
6
structure stands forth clear."
If we we must abjure Rowse's "proper
trust our poetic,
method." We
counter that a poem is not a repository of "facts"
and "information," but a form of presentational symbolism
that creates with us its own virtual world. For those who agree
with Rowse, and this includes most Shakespearean scholars,
the process of response is not one of making meaning. It is
historical research into the most intimate details of Shake-
speare's life (for example, was he a homosexual?). Note that
the criterion of success is quite different from ours. Rowse,
supremely rational, believes he can make "the whole structure
[stand] forth clear." We who do not accumulate "every fact"
but instead explore every possible way of meaning do not ex-
pect a clear answer so much as possibilities.
The historical method is not invalid as part of literary
study; would not be so foolish as to rail against any form
I
of knowledge. But it is hardly the single proper method on —

the contrary, should be considered a supplementary method,
it
one that may buttress but can neither supersede nor dispossess
primary emotional response.
But to the sonnet itself.
Is it the presentation of a lover's lament, the poet-as-lover
grieving over the sins of his loved one and over his own
tolerance of his loved one's sins? If so, what could the "sensual
fault" of the loved one be? Does the sonnet seem to be ad-
dressed to a woman or a man? Or doesn't it matter? Who is
"that sweet thief"? Is the thief the loved one? the poet's own
weakness? Is the thief a rival lover? Or is it something more
abstract like original sin ("Roses have thorns," Eden has the
serpent)? It would seem to me that much of the meaning we
make of the poem resides in the meanings we make of "that
sweet thief."
6
A. L. Rowse, ed., Shakespeare's Sonnets (New York: Harper & Row, 1954), p. viii.
In my case, response demands that I push aside some of

the scholarly research with which I am familiar. I know that
literary historians maintain this sonnet was written to a man,
Shakespeare's patron, the Earl of Southampton. I know that
historians have chronicled the ups and downs of Shakespeare's
relationship with his patron, and place Sonnet 35 in that con-
text. But I also know that even the most meticulous historical
research on the subject comprises for the most part inference
rather than acknowledged fact. In short, Shakespeare himself
tells us nothing; he bequeathed no diary to the historians, who
in fact occasionally debate whether Shakespeare actually

existed. Alternatively, we could say that Shakespeare tells us
—
everything but not as fact and not as biography.
The meanings I make of Sonnet 35 include a sense that the
sins it presents are a break in a pact between lovers and are
specifically sexual, not just sensual. Yet so in love is the
speaker of the poem —and I confess to a limit in my sensibil-
ities; and sex can best be imagined as heterosexual
for me, love
—that he, despite himself,understands and forgives. But he
cannot forgive himself for what he has gotten into. His is a
liaison with a profligate, promiscuous mistress; she is not only
destructive herself but brings out the worst in him. My own
self-esteem never lower than when I feel I have permitted
is
someone to bring out the worst in me. Thus my attitudes about

my own behavior come into play in making the meanings of the
sonnet.
The couplet with which the sonnet ends supports all these
meanings. "That sweet thief" is not necessarily only the un-
faithful mistress; it can also be the speaker's susceptibility to
his mistress' charms; and it can possess a wider meaning sug-
gestive of mankind's vulnerability to self-corruption. These are
multiple and compatible meanings, and I am sure there are
more that other readers could make.
Here is another poem from the same era, although not
quite as loaded with historical weight as is the work of
Shakespeare.
THE LOVER SHOWETH HOW HE IS FORSAKEN

OF SUCH AS HE SOMETIME ENJOYED
They flee from me, that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
Ihave seen them gentle, tame, and meek,

That now are wild, and do not remember
That sometime they put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand, and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise,
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise, 10
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,

And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewith all sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?"
Itwas no dream, I lay broad waking.
But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go, of her goodness,
And she also to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindely am served, 20
I fain would know what she hath deserved.
THOMAS WYATT
There one quite explicit meaning described by the title

is
of the itself. But why did the women leave him? Is he

poem
just an aging roue bemoaning the inevitable, or is he a man
truly wronged? If the women in the poem are presented as
deer, first tame, then turned wild, what kind of gamekeeper
do we make of the narrative persona? Do we take him at his
word that he was too gentle for his own good, and, if so, does
this mean he might have kept his mistress if he had been less
kind? (Echoes of "Every woman adores a Fascist.") Or do we
conceive of the women as fickle, mindless creatures, drawn to
any "new fangleness"? Are the last two lines ironic? That is,
does the persona really mean that he is very unkindly served
and that he knows exactly what these women deserve?
On the one hand, the poem would appear not to be multi-
stratified, not to demonstrate semantic thickness. Yet on the
other, we see that there is a great deal of meaning to make.
I know that among readers different meanings are made by
proponents of women's liberation, by bachelors, and by the
middle-aged as compared with the young. These are not dif-
ferent meanings based on different information, but on the
attitudes different readers hold.
Sometimes we encounter a poem that does not imme-

making meaning. The poem may
diately offer possibilities of
appear at first not to possess layers of meaning, semantic
thickness. It may be in fact that the poem is not semantically
thick, and we would therefore designate it as verse rather than
poetry (more to be said on this in Chapter V). Or it may be
that, even more so than with "Elsie" or "The Lover Showest,"
we need to work hard to discover the semantic thickness of the
work.
For me, Milton's Petrarchan sonnet "On the Late Massacre
in Piemont" is a poem that needs to be worked at to uncover
its various levels of meaning.
Avenge, O
Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
on the Alpine mountains cold,
Lie scattered
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones.
Forget not; in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant: that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
At first the sonnet seems to tell rather than evoke. Once

we know a few historical facts and references, available in any
edition of Milton and in most anthologies containing the poem,
it would appear that Milton is simply portraying the event of
the massacre and asking for divine vengeance. The poem
emerges from a specific historical context: during the religious
struggles of the Reformation, members of an ancient heretical
sect closely identified with early Protestantism were massacred
by Roman Catholic troops. "Stocks and stones" refer to the
wood and stone images found in Catholic churches prior to the
Reformation; the "triple tyrant" is the pope, who wore a triple
crown; and the reference to Babylon can be both political and
biblical. Biblical Babylon was regarded by the ancient Hebrews
—
as a city of sin; the political reference could be to Rome, the

center of the Catholic Church, which was viewed by Protestants
as a "modern" Babylon. Knowledge of this sort is helpful, but
it does limit somewhat our ability to make meanings.
It is generally agreed by literary historians that "On the
Late Massacre in Piemont" is a "political" poem. Milton was
closely associated with the Cromwellian government in Eng-
land, and is even regarded by many historians as its chief
literary propagandist. The question thus becomes whether
there is any meaning-making for us in this work so obviously
rooted in a particular political, historical, and religious period.
For me the answer to the question is yes; but the meaning-
making is of a different kind from what I find in the poems we
have previously discussed. It inheres not in the evocative power
of specific words or lines, but rather in the tone of the poem
specifically, in the manner in which the persona addresses God.
There seem to me to be three possibilities inherent in the
persona's way of addressing God in the sonnet: (1) the per-
sonal voice is arrogant, demanding, and righteous; (2) the
voice is one of supplication, asking rather than demanding,
but asking with a conviction so strong as to make the request
seem undeniable; (3) Milton is using a rhetorical device, which
assumes the tone it does primarily for evocative effects.
There is a great deal of meaning-making in choosing among
these three alternatives, and the meaning of the sonnet as a
whole depends on which we choose. If we choose the first
meaning, we must deal with the implication of man command-
ing God and, especially, of man commanding God to be an
instrument of national policy. The second meaning also in-
vokes God in pursuit of political ends, but with an approach
something like a plea. The rhetorical emphasis requires that
we atune ourselves to the relationship between Milton and us,
rather than between Milton and God. Why, in considering his
readers, would Milton decide to speak with this voice?
Implied in the meaning the reader makes of "On the Late
Massacre in Piemont" are his religious attitudes and possibly
his political beliefs. I think politics must be considered not
only because the sonnet is political, but, more to the point,
because twentieth-century political leaders constantly invoke
God as the protector and sanctifier of national policy. Not
simply our religious beliefs, but the way we regard the use of
God's name to justify and condone national enterprises rang-

ing from war to economic policy, is bound to affect our re-
sponse to Milton's poem. This does not mean we should fall
into the trap I. A. Richards has called "doctrinal adhesion"
one does not have to be a theist to appreciate Milton. But it

does mean that even so public a poem as "On the Late Mas-
sacre in Piemont" can possess semantic thickness, can tap our
deeply rooted attitudes and beliefs. Ultimately, of course, we
must strive for Kenneth Burke's "perspective atop all the con-
flicts of attitude; and therein lies the antidote to doctrinal
adhesion.
In responding to"On the Late Massacre in Piemont," I am
besieged by conflicting attitudes and values. On the one
hand I am appalled by the meaning that focuses on Milton's
desire to use God as an instrument of political and religious
vengeance. Yet I can also make meaning of the poem as a
masterful appeal for justice; and I am aware that in the
seventeenth century there was no division between Church and
state. In the end, or at least as of my most recent reading of
the poem, I find that its merits triumph; the tone of the poem
seems compelling and its sheer oratorical resonance transcends
its propagandistic qualities. But to come to this persuasion
to come to terms with the poem —

I had genuinely to plumb my
own attitudes and achieve the kind of perspective Burke

describes.
My personal response to the poem is only to the point
here, however, if it illustrates thateven so seemingly forthright
a work as Milton's sonnet may "mean" in a plurality of ways.
And it is the plurality of meanings thatpoems offer which
makes them which contributes to the difficulty people
elusive,
have in —
talking about poems it can be like grabbing a jellyfish.
But talking about poems with others is also difficult be-
cause the jellyfish has a sting. The poem may mean so deeply
and personally for a reader that he is reluctant to risk his
response before the company of others. Responding to poetry
but not for the reasons that are generally given: the
is difficult
remoteness or strangeness of poetry. Our poetic and our study

of response have shown that the sheer imaginative and emo-
tional labor exerted by the reader is very great; it may be
nearly as great as the work of the poet in the first place.
The cutting edge of the poetic is double-edged; the poet
makes meanings as he creates the poem, the reader makes

meanings as he seeks to apprehend the poem. For this reason
unresolved difficulties remain. Response is making meanings,
yet I don't think every meaning is equally valid for a given
poem. In a world where anything goes, nothing goes. For our
poetic to be useful it must help us discriminate among re-
sponses, among meanings. We should be able to say with some
assurance that the poem of Reconnaissance 3, Theodore
Roethke's "I Knew a Woman," does not have praise of misogyny
as one of its meanings. Yet how can we deny this as a valid
meaning, any more than we can refute a sheep-child-as-Christ
meaning made of James Dickey's poem?
This is a frightening question for those of us who make
a living as teachers or critics of poetry. And it provides me
with yet another explanation of why Richards was unable to
accept the protocols written by his students even though those
protocols corroborated his own poetic. Two seemingly con-
tradictory mandates emerge side by side: (1) poetry by its
very nature requires emotional, subjective response; (2) we
must learn how to respond properly to poetry (or even be
taught to do so). The contradiction mirrors that of Coleridge's
demand that poetry be both passionate and precise.
The reasoning of Louise Rosenblatt in Literature as Ex-
ploration epitomizes the problem. First, she announces a
tenable manifesto of response:
The reader brings to the work personality traits, mem-

and preoccupations, a
ories of past events, present needs
particular mood of the moment, and a particular physical
condition. These and many other elements in a never-to-
be-duplicated combination determine his response to the
peculiar contribution of the text.
Then she finds Richards' students "at the mercy of personal

obsessions, chance association, and irrelevant conventional
opinions about poetry." 7
Response is the product of "needs and preoccupations,"

yet the reader is condemned for his "personal obsessions."
Response derives from "personality traits" and "memories,"
7
Louise Rosenblatt, Literature as Exploration (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts,
1938), pp. 64-65.
yet the "associations" and "opinions" of the reader are den-

igrated. The situation isas absurd as that of the schoolteacher
who tells his students he respects their maturity yet requires
that they obtain a pass from him each time they wish to go
to the bathroom.
In sum, we have to learn how to use the poetic that frees
readers from the tyranny of "the right response." We have to
learn to use it without reneging on it or abandoning it. This
means we can neither resort to the old rules, as Rosenblatt
does, nor leave response to the mercies of anarchy. New cri-
teria by which to understand and evaluate response are in
order.
Before undertaking this formidable task, here's a small
poem as an envoy to our venture.
The morning glory

another thing
that will never be my friend.
BASHO
RECONNAISSANCE
WORLD WAR III
You post a sign,

"We have gone to the cellar to die."
Ready to descend,
you hear the motors of airplanes.
You look up to see

the American right wing.
You think of the euphemism for pay:

"This is the day the eagle craps."
II
All the planes are driven

by suicide pilots. 10
The young fliers are ready to drown,

to fill the oceans, if need be,
while the fish cough

on dry land.
Mountains will fill valleys,

the beaches fuse.
Ill
You decide against shelter.

Instead, you stand on your porch.
In the sun,
that old fireball, 20
96
97
you stand on your porch with your family.

You tell them not to worry.
It's a nice day, you say,

such a warmth on your skin.
MARVIN BELL
Think about "World War III" as if you were its author. Try
to explain decisions you made about form and meaning. For
example, why did you choose three sections for the poem, each
numbered and each containing four two-line stanzas? Why
use the second person singular, "you," in the poem? Who is
this "you"? Why use phrases like "the American right wing,"
" This is the day the eagle craps,' " and "that old fireball"?
Most important, what meanings do you, as poet, intend?

IV
INTEGRATING
PRINCIPLES
poet to critic: "I don't know what makes you think you
can judge poetry; you've never written a poem."
critic: "I've never laid an egg, either, but I'm a better

judge of an omelette than any hen."
We are convinced that making meanings is what poetry is all
about. We are further convinced that such meanings result

from the interaction between the poem and the reader's emo-
tional and attitudinal disposition. The problem thus becomes
that of distinguishing among the variety of meanings evoked
by any given poem. Is one meaning "better" than another? Can
certain meanings be more faithful to the poem than others? Is
there any meaning made of a poem that should be dismissed
as illegitimate for that poem? In short, how do we judge mean-
ings made by the reader?
If we conceived of the meanings that comprise response
as interpretations of the poem, the difficulty of our task might
be diminished. To interpret something assumes that there is a
stable, identifiable thing that is, in effect, being translated by
the interpreter. An interpretation offers another version of
something. We have already agreed with Coleridge that one
of the important characteristics of poetry is its untranslata-
bility. Therefore it will serve us well to note now the subtle but
crucial difference between responding by interpreting a poem

and responding by making meanings of it.
Those who offer interpretations of a poem assume that
the poem is a fixed entity whose limits may somehow be
established (by the words on the page, by dictionary definitions,
98
99 INTEGRATING PRINCIPLES
by common usage, by established codes of symbols). For

example, an interpretation of "On the Late Massacre in Pie-
mont" explains the historical event on which the poem is based,
and offers "translations" of terms like "stocks and stones" and
"triple tyrant." Those of us who make meanings of a poem
regard the poem as a series of relationships between the poet,
the poem, and the reader, the reader and himself, the reader
and the world. The difference is essentially one of process.
Interpretation involves an attempt to "extract" meaning
from the poem, meaning ascribed to the poet exclusively;
meaning-making infuses the poem with meaning from all the
sources just mentioned.
Think of this poem by Robert Frost (which unfortunately
has become one of the trusties of most poetry courses and
therefore is often treated too patly).
STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
It a commonplace that Frost's poems have implications

is
beyond the simple pastoral scenes they present. Most critics

interpret this poem as depicting the conflict between nature
and society. The "woods and frozen lake" pull the narrative
persona toward them, but he has "promises to keep" in the
INTEGRATING PRINCIPLES 100
world of men. Some critics have gone so far as to interpret the

"lovely, dark, and deep" woods as representing some un-
conscious longing for oblivion; the persona could even be
expressing a suicidal bent.
Making meanings of the poem may produce similar ac-
counts of the poem's implications. But how we come by these
meanings is different. It is not just that the persona describes
—
the woods as "lovely, dark, and deep" we must be able to feel
the soft darkness, the seemingly endless recession of trees and
snow. If we ourselves can sense the suicidal pull, if we associate
times we've buried ourselves in snow and, paradoxically, found
the cold snow warm, then that meaning holds. If we cannot,
if the woods are redolent for us only of wet feet and a closed
sky, then the poem will not mean that way for us, no matter
how persuasively another reader argues for a "suicidal"
interpretation.
The interpreter will note that the wind is "easy," the snow
is "downy," and the woods are "lovely," and will offer an inter-
pretation of the poem that includes the allure of nature, of the
dark winter woods. The reader making meanings will draw on
his own experience and associations in response to the same
presentation of images and make a meaning that includes him-
self and how he feels about the woods in winter and these
particular woods that are filling up with snow.
Two different interpreters of the poem, arguing about
whether the woods are a symbol of the womb, can look closely
at the text of the poem. One will say that the womb, like the
woods, is "lovely, dark, and deep." The other will say that many
things, besides wombs, possess those characteristics, but most
definitely, wombs do not fill up with snow. He will contend that
a return-to-the-womb interpretation requires more evidence
than this single line about the woods, and that such evidence
is not to be found in the poem. Suddenly a maker-of-meanings
appears on the scene. He supports the first interpretation with

the confession that snowflakes and sperm cells have always
been linked in his world of associations. Therefore, since the
snow fills the woods, this reader will make a meaning that in-
—
cludes sperm cells filling the womb the persona of the poem
wishes to join them and return to his origins.
So we are, after a short excursus, back to our question:
How do we judge meanings made by the reader? The question
assumes an answer; that is, it assumes that judgment is possi-

ble, that there are more and less legitimate meanings that can
be made of a given poem.
If our poetic has a guiding spirit, it is Coleridge's. Here
are two passages from his work, one of which I quoted at the
outset of the book:
Now let a man watch his mind while he is composing
Most of my readers will have observed a small water-

insect on the surface of rivulets and will have noticed,
. . .
how the little animal wins its way up against the stream,
by alternate pulses of active and passive motion, now
resisting the current, and now yielding to it in order to
gather strength and a momentary fulcrum for a further
propulsion. This is no unapt emblem for the mind's self-
experience in the act of thinking. 1
The grandest efforts of poetry are where the imagination

is called forth, not to produce a distinct form, but a strong
working of the mind, still offering what is still repelled,
and again creating what is rejected; the result being what
the poet wishes to impress, namely, the substitution of a
sublime feeling of the unimaginable for the mere image. 2
The first passage describes the poet making the poem; the
second, the reader making meaning. But observe that although
the protagonists are different, the process described is remark-
ably similar for both. In both instances, the mind flexes and
relaxes, accepts and rejects alternatives. It is always in motion,
fulfilling itself creatively, whether in the sense of "self-
experience" or substituting "a sublime feeling of the un-
imaginable for the mere image."
Coleridge is telling us that to make a poem and to make
meanings of a poem require similar mental and emotional
—
labor both bring "the whole soul" of man into activity. If we
have any doubt that this is Coleridge's contention, we need
only hear his explanation of the effect of Shakespeare's poetry.
Why is it that Shakespeare so enthralls us? Coleridge quotes
the lines from "Venus and Adonis"
1
Biographia Literaria, ed. George Watson (London: J. M. Dent, 1917, 1956), p. 524.
2
Coleridge's Shakespearean Criticism, ed. Thomas Middleton Raysor, vol. 2 (Cam-
bridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1930), p. 118.
Look! how a bright star shooteth from the sky,

So glides he in the night from Venus' eye
and "You feel him to be a poet, inasmuch as for a time

says:
—
he has made you one an active creative being." 3 The poetry
works because it makes a poet of the reader not in the literal —
sense (Shakespeare obviously the poet), but in the sense
is
of participation in the poetic process. The poet creates the

work of art; the reader re-creates it. This, I think, is the point:
the making of meanings re-creates the poem.
Not surprisingly, psychologists, in an attempt to analyze
the act of re-creation, compare the work of art to a dream,
the meaning of which must be made by the dreamer. The
"participation mystique," according to Carl Jung, is "the secret
of artistic creation and of the effectiveness of art"; it is unique
to presentational symbolism, of which the dream is the
paradigm:
A dream never says: "You ought," or: "This is the truth."

It presents an image in much the same way as nature
allows a plant to grow, and we must draw our own con-
clusions. If a person has a nightmare, it means either that
he is too much given to fear, or else that he is too exempt
from it; and if he dreams of the old wise man it may
mean that he is too pedagogical, and also that he stands in
need of a teacher. In a subtle way both meanings come to
the same thing as we perceive when we are able to let the
work of art act upon us as it acted upon the artist. To
grasp its meaning, we must allow it to shape us as it
shaped him. 4
This is exactly us about poetry! The

what our poetic tells
multiplicity of possible meanings, different but not contradic-

tory, created by the reader as he allows the poem to "act upon"
—
him our discovery about poetry parallels in every detail Jung's
account. The starting points are different; Jung begins with
dreams, we began with language and how language "works" in
poetry. Yet the poetic that emerges is similar with one —
* Ibid., p. 213.
4"Psychology and Literature," in Brewster Ghiselin, ed., The Creative Process: A
Symposium (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1954), p. 231.
addition. Jung, more explicitly than we until now, allies the

person who responds to the work of art and the artist who
creates "...we must allow [the work of art] to shape us
it:
as it shaped him."
Another psychologist, Hanns Sachs, underscores Jung's
notion of the "participation mystique," while adding the proviso
that the respondent becomes an artist only for the time that
he is under the sway of the work of art; he is obviously not
transformed for all time into a poet, painter, or composer:
Responding to art we are led in a . . . subtle way toward

a much
higher degree of participation. In a sense we are
creating the work out of our own person while we are
looking at it. The work, or rather the artist who produced
it,has been able to change us into artistic creators, of
course only for the time that we are able to take his work
and all its values with our senses as well as with the rest
of our mind. 5
Our study of poems must qualify our acceptance of Sachs'

assertion that "we are led" somehow into a "higher degree of
participation." On the contrary, we are not so much led as
impelled: the poem virtually requires of us that we re-create
it by making meanings. Our "higher degree of participation"
is the sine qua non of response to poetry there is no other —
way; and I, for one, would hardly call the process "subtle." If
we don't make meanings our response to the poem can only be
a mechanical, surface description of form, meter, and the like.
To immerse ourselves in a poem is to leap, feet first, into the
currents, countercurrents, and tides that carry the poem's
meanings.
While we are considering the psychologist's view of art, we
cannot omit Freud. His description of the poet is well known
and, I think, misguided. Freud, like Jung, makes an analogy
between art and dreams. But he goes further and calls the poet
a daydreamer: the child daydreams and the poet the childlike —
—
man creates art of his daydreams. But a daydream is un-
controlled fancy; it is all play. We learned in Chapter I that
the poet's activity cannot accurately be described as play. It
5 The Creative Unconscious (Cambridge, Mass.: Sci-art Publishers, 1942), p. 195.

ishard work, disciplined, and requiring a great deal of control.

Freud's comparison might be used to inform the first stage
of poetic creation, but that is only the beginning. The poem is
really made, not of the initial play of the mind, but of the
careful attention to detail, of the working and reworking
required to effect a precise range of meanings.
In an essay not on poetry at all, Freud surprises us with
a revelation profoundly relevant to our investigation. He is
writing about his response to Michelangelo's statue of Moses,
before which he stood for a number of weeks in unabashed
awe. Freud attempts to understand why the statue evoked
such a strong emotional response, and writes:
In my opinion, it can only be the artist's intention, insofar

as he has succeeded in expressing it to us in his work and
conveying it to us, that grips us so powerfully. I realize it

cannot be merely a matter of intellectual comprehension;
what he aims at is to awaken in us the same emotional
attitude, the same mental constellation as that which in
him produced the impetus to create. 6
The artist brings us into the "same emotional attitude, the

same mental constellation as that which in him produced the
impetus to create" —that's the point. It is another way of
describing the "participation mystique." We participate in the
creation by re-creating; but in order to re-create we must share
the impulse that impelled the work originally.
In adding the concept of the participation mystique to
our poetic, we seem to veer toward "intentionalism" in re-
sponse to poetry. Intentionalism is not one of the kinds of
malpractice mentioned by Richards; but it is so clearly a habit
of response among my own students, and so clearly, to my way
of thinking, an error in response, that we must be careful to
distinguish between bringing response into "the same mental
constellation" of the poet, and requiring that that response take
account of the poet's known or supposed intentions.
Intentionalism is not a difficult concept to understand. It
means exactly what it says: to understand a poem we must
understand the poet's intentions. Readers might, for example,
8
On Creativity and the Unconscious (New York: Harper & Row, 1958), p. 12.
assert that Kenneth Rexroth, in the following poem, intends

us to feel sorry for him.
THE ADVANTAGES OF LEARNING

I am a man with no ambitions
And few friends, wholly incapable
Of making a living, growing no
Younger, fugitive from some just doom.
Lonely, ill clothed, what does it matter?
At midnight I make myself a jug
Of hot white wine and cardamon seeds.
In a torn grey robe and old beret,
I sit in the cold writing poems,
Drawing nudes on the crooked margins,
Copulating with sixteen year old
Nymphomaniacs of my imagination.
In addition to noting the plaintive effect of "few friends,"

"lonely,""ill clothed," and other images of poverty, students
have supported their intentionalism with the photograph of

Rexroth on the cover of the volume from which the poem
comes. In the photograph, Rexroth looks like the persona of
his poem, morose, eyes downcast, wearing somewhat shabby
clothes. But how do we know the poem is about Rexroth him-
self? The narrative persona, the "I" of the poem, could be
someone else. The persona could be drawn from an acquain-
tance of Rexroth's, or it could be imaginary. Or it could be
Rexroth portraying himself: we simply don't know. All we do
know is that there is an "I" speaking in the poem, who may
be a poet, since he tells of writing poems.
What if we had a statement from Rexroth attesting that
the poem is indeed autobiographical? Would we then be able
to say he intends us to feel sorry for him? I think not. The
poem of course makes no assertion. A reader can argue that
the last three lines present a triumph of the imagination over
the physical world. For this reader, the title is not ironic: the
advantage of learning is that it avails a man of other worlds,
it provides a feast for the imaginative life. Another reader can
maintain that the last three lines present the sorriest dimension
of the whole poem; the poor poet must resort to masturbatory
fantasies. For him the title is thus ironic; there are no advan-
tages to learning at all, and the learned man ends up in a cold

room, lonely and abandoned.
It could still be asked: what if the intentions are not
supposed but known? What if Rexroth told us not only that—

the poem was about himself but that he intended it as a
portrait of self-pity? Admittedly, given such testimony, our
capacity to make meanings of the poem by re-creating it might
be restricted. (And poets are usually too wise to impose such
restrictions; hence they seldom tell what they intend by a
poem.) But even so I would argue that to base our response
on the poet's stated intentions would be wrong. I refuse to
equate intentions with meanings. The poet can quite honorably
intend one or several meanings and create a poem that has
others quite different. If Rexroth told us he intended this poem
to be self-pitying, it could still have as one of its meanings an
affirmation of individual strength. In this sense the meanings
that can be made of a poem truly are beyond the poet's control
or intention. This fact is demonstrated by the numerous in-
stances in which an eager reader offers a poet a new meaning
for his work. The poets I have seen in this situation candidly
acknowledge that the new meaning had not occurred to them;
nonetheless they admit or even are enthusiastic about the
reader's meaning as supplementing their own range of mean-
ings. Perhaps we can recall Kunitz's reaction on pages 21 and
22 to one reader's meaning, and here we can read a poem by
Denise Levertov celebrating new meanings made by her readers.
THE SECRET
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
I who don't know the

secret wrote
the line. They
told me
(through a third person)
they had found it 10
but not what it was

not even
what line it was. No doubt

by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,
the line, the name of

the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can't find, 20
and for loving me

for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death

finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines
in other
happenings. And for 30
wanting to know it,
for
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.
—
To return to our previous discussion I have used "The
Advantages of Learning" to articulate two of the problems
inherent in intentionalism: (1) we usually don't know what
the poet intended; and (2) even when we do, we should not
let his intentions restrict the meanings we can make of the
poem. To these, a third problem can be added: that for the
majority of poems, we have no way of knowing the poet's
intentions; the poet is dead and has not left a declaration of
intentions to accompany his poems.
Literary historians will of course speculate about a poet's
may very well be that Emily Dickinson longed for
intentions. It
an unattainable lover and intended the poem "Hope" to be a
message to him. But she doesn't say so, and the intentionalist
argument must be built on speculation.
In the arena of literary criticism, intentionalism is at worst
a mild vice; at best, a way of attempting to gain a fuller

picture of a poet's life and work. In the world
"real world," the
of the personal and men, intentionalism
political destinies of
can be pernicious. We have all heard of poets punished by
totalitarian governments because their work was branded dan-
gerous or subversive. In such cases, the government officials
assume a specific intention on the part of the poet. As recently
as 1968, a poem was used against a poet in a court of law in
this country. The poem is "Black People!" by LeRoi Jones
(Imamu Amiri Baraka).
BLACK PEOPLE !
What about that bad short you saw last week

on Frelinghuysen, or those stoves and
refrigerators, record players, shotguns,
in Sears,Bambergers, Klein's, Hahnes',
Chase, and the smaller joosh
enterprises? What about that bad jewelry, on
Washington Street, and
You
those couple of steps on Springfield?
know how to get it, you can
get it, no money down, no money never, 10
money dont grow on trees no

way, only whitey's got it, makes it with a
machine, to control you
You cant steal nothin from a white man, he's
already stole it he owes
you anything you want, even his life. All the
stores will open if you
will say the magic words. The magic words
are: Up against the wall mother
fucker this is Smash the
a stick up! Or: 20
window these are magic

at night (
actions ) smash the windows daytime,

anytime, together, lets smash the
window drag the shit from in there. No
money down. No time to pay. Just
take what you want. The magic dance in the
street. Run up and down Broad
Street niggers, take the shit you want. Take
their lives if need be, but
30
get what you want what you need. Dance up
and down the streets, turn all
the music up, run through the streets with

music, beautiful radios on
Market Street, they are brought here
especially for you Our brothers
. . .
are moving all over, smashing at jelly white

faces. We must make our own
World, man, our own world, and we can not
do this unless the white man
isdead. Let's get together and kill him my 4°
man,
let's get to gather the fruit
of the sun, let's make a world we want black
children to grow and learn in
do not let your children when they grow
look in your face and curse you by
pitying your tomish ways.
I have difficulty responding to this poem as poetry because

of what I. A. Richards would call my "doctrinal adhesions."
Because of my beliefs, the implied anti-Semitism of "joosh,"
and the seeming exhortations to violence become a barrier
between me and the poem. But I must not treat it as a political
tract: the ultimate test of the poem as a poem is that established
by the poetic. Is its language at once excited and precise? Does
it evoke a range of meanings and engage me, attitudinally and
emotionally, in making meanings of the poem, in its re-

creation? Does it serve not so much to communicate the poet's
ideas to me as to cause me to experience the tumult and passion
of the ideas themselves?
These questions were not asked by the judge who presided
over LeRoi Jones' trial following the Newark, New Jersey,
riots of 1967. He did not call in experts on poetics to testify
whether or not poem. Instead, he accepted it as a
this is a
poem and saw only a mandate for action. He
in the poem
decided that Jones' intention in writing the poem must have
been hortatory, actually to persuade the black people of
Newark to riot. Accordingly, the poem was called a "diabolical
prescription" by the judge, and Jones received a jail sentence
and a large fine.
—
No poem even what appears to be a "political" poem is —
a "prescription." Remember, a poem, like a dream, "never says:
'You ought,' or: 'This is the truth.' " The poem presents an
image, a vision. One of the chief dangers of intentionalism,
then, is that it tempts us to think of poems as serving purposes,

as having reasons for being that are other than poetic. Whether
the work is Yevgeny Yevtushenko's, Rudyard Kipling's, or Ezra
Pound's, we pervert it as poetry if we assign anything other
than a poetic meaning to it.
If intentionalism is so distinctly unhelpful in response to

poetry, how then do we come to share in the "participation
mystique"? How do we allow the poem to shape us as it shaped
the poet? In Freud's terms, how do we enter the emotional
attitude and mental constellation that provided the poet with
the impetus to create? Our foray into the liabilities of an
intentionalist poetic informs a concept of intent that will
help us.
A distinction emerges that is crucial: on the one hand,
we have intentionalism in response to poetry, which is un-
tenable because it assumes we should inject nonpoetic dimen-
sions (personal circumstances of the poet, motivational factors,
and the like) into the process of response; on the other hand,
in order to shape our response to a poem with some fidelity to
the poet's own creative impulse, we must be able to imagine,
sense, or perceive the poetic intent of the poem. We asked
earlier what boundaries could possibly be placed on response,
which our poetic demanded be associative, attitudinal, and
emotional. The answer is that such response finds its range of
possibility and its freedoms and restrictions of meanings
within the poetic intent of any given poem.
Remembering my account, in Chapter I, of the making
of "Lemming Song" may help to clarify the distinction. The
poem can be responded to fully (that is, the reader can become
re-creator) with no knowledge of why the poem was written.
We do not have to know of the author's longtime interest in
animal behavior, nor of the scientific article that prompted
the poem. But full response requires that we consider reasons
for the use of various words in the poem, like "thermostat,"
"triggers" and "cued"; it requires that we consider why the
lines and stanzas break where they do; and it requires that we
"know" why sex and death are so strongly linked in the poem.
These have nothing to do with intention, but are integral to
the work's poetic intent.
Poetic intent (hereafter, simply "intent") thus inheres in
our coming to understand the decisions and choices we pre-
Ill INTEGRATING PRINCIPLES
sume the poet to have made. In order to respond to a poem

faithfully (that is, to distinguish those meanings that are more
fully responsive to the poem from those that are more the
product of some we
particular predisposition of the reader)
must be able to perceive the intent of the poem.
At some point during the process of response, the reader
must, amid all his meaning-making, ask himself, "Is this mean-
ing (or, are these meanings) in keeping with the intent of the
poem, or is it primarily a meaning I'm bringing to the poem
because of such-and-such an experience I've had?" This does
not mean that the reader must renege on or deny his own
emotional and attitudinal being. But he must balance his
subjectivity with the effort to respond within the realm of the
poem's intent.
How can we ever know the intent of a poem? Simply put,
we cannot know it. However, we can train and discipline our-
selves as readers to sense or intuitively apprehend a poem's
intent. Responding to poetry, like making poems, is an art. As
such, there are no absolute and unyielding criteria for measure-
ment. But just as there is a discipline to the making of poems,
a discipline comprising the balance between passion and
precision, between freedom and constraint, so this same disci-
pline applies to the process of response, to the making of
meanings by the reader. The discipline does not reside in the
kind of approach to poetry implicit in the exercise questions
of textbooks. There are no right answers. But there is a
technique.
We can identify two dimensions of the technique of re-
sponse. One is to formulate for ourselves a poetic, an articu-
lated and overt set of the assumptions, expectations, even

demands, of poetry. The poetic must be at once firm enough
to have definition and to be applied to poems without losing
its integrity every time a given poem comes up with surprises,
exceptions, or innovations that don't "fit" the poetic. When a

poem doesn't fit, we must ask if our poetic is too narrow or
if in fact we are confronted by something that we really don't
think is a poem. For these really to be alternatives, the poetic

must be flexible enough to adapt or amend itself to encompass
the unfamiliar kind of poem. It must also be definitive enough
to enable us to distinguish sham from truth, verse from poetry,
cleverness from passion, an explosion of emotion from a work
of art. The poetic we developed in the previous chapter may

—
be able to stand us in good stead we shall test it further as we
progress.
This dimension of technique is one to which a great
first
deal of attention is usually paid, although I consider it to be
the wrong kind of attention. Most readers are concerned with

what a poem is; the problem is that they look for definitions
of poetry to guide them rather than an organic account of
process that describes how poetry works.
The second dimension of the technique of response is
notably absent from most studies of poetry, whether they be
private or undertaken as part of a poetry class. This entails,
quite simply, that we make poems, that we ourselves write
poetry. If we take the notion of intent in poetry seriously,
how else are we to gain insight into the intent of apoem un-
less we have written poems? That we must do something our-
selves in order to know how it functions seems so obvious a
fact that would hardly require mentioning were it not so
it
consistently overlooked. In other words, I think the drama

critic portrayed in the epigram beginning this chapter is clever
but his statement is misleading. He can judge the omelette
because he made it; it does not follow that he is a better judge
of an egg than any hen.
In most of the activities of our lives, we know that to do
is to know. Can we really comprehend the aching ankles of the
five-year-old learning to ice skate if we have never skated

ourselves? Can we understand what the runner means when
he tells us he got a second wind if we have never run hard?
Can we fully appreciate the workmanship of a fine sweater if
we have never knitted? Comfortable in our street shoes, we
can lend support to the novice skater, holding him up and
offering encouragement. Having never run ourselves, we can
thrill as we watch a comeback in the last lap of a mile race.
We can wear the sweater, delighted by its soft texture, glowing
colors, and intricate pattern. But in all these instances we
cannot fully comprehend the process or the product unless
we have done it ourselves.
Further, we acknowledge that those who do it will know
more about it, since we defer to their insight. After the theater,
a group of friends will inevitably pay special attention to the
opinion of one of their number who himself has acted on the
stage. When a moon rocket is launched, other television com-

mentators give way to the observations of the former astro-
naut. Among sports announcers it is generally conceded that
those who were or are themselves athletes are most fully able
to understand what is going on in the minds and with the
bodies of the men on the field. Many poets never write literary
criticism, but those who do are listened to especially closely:
Eliot, Pound, and William Carlos Williams have a special power
as critics because they are also practitioners.
None of this is to say that we should feel inadequate in
our response to something we have never done or can never do.
Even though we have never painted, or written a novel or a
play, our response to paintings, novels, and plays can certainly
be insightful, emotionally powerful, and carefully considerate
of the art form itself. I dare say a case could be made that
some of the finest critics in the world are not themselves prac-
titioners of the art. But I would suggest that even their crit-
icism would benefit if they tried to do what they write so well.
Most of us will never be astronauts; most of us will never
attempt to write a novel. But all of us can try to make a poem.
The materials are at hand and the investment of time is com-
paratively short. Making poems, unlike driving racing cars,
is not a luxury of the privileged few. On the contrary, it is
an activity available to anyone engaged in a serious and dis-

ciplined effort to learn about poetry.
I do not think my suggestion that the reader of poetry
ought himself to try to make a poem places an unfair burden

on those who value poetry yet have never considered them-
selves as makers of poems. On the contrary, I hope this sug-
gestion can be seen as creating an opportunity rather than an
obstacle. Remember, I have said nothing of the quality of the
poem to be created; I cannot urge too strongly or repeat too
often that it is the process of making that is most important
here. Further, the process of making a poem is similar to the
process of meaning-making central to response to poetry. Just
as we consider ourselves capable of responding to poetry (or
of learning how we can respond to poetry), there is no reason
why we cannot also consider ourselves capable of making
poems (or of learning to be makers of poems).
Our object is to understand poetry as best we can. To do
this, we have seen that we must learn to respond not only to
.
the meaning-making potential of the poem and ourselves, but

poem. There is no other way
also to the intent integral to the
to apprehend a poem's intent than by the empathetic process
of judgment that depends on our being able to put ourselves
in the mental and emotional "constellation" of the poet him-
self.
Our facility as the poem's re-creators will be enhanced by

our knowledge of ourselves as creators.
As readers who are also poets, we shall be reversing the
kind of role duality we examined in Chapter I, where it became
apparent that the poet, as he makes the poem, must be able
to put himself in the place of the reader. The poet has to be
able to see his poem from the outside, looking in, in order to
gauge the response he might elicit. We, in turn, must attempt
to see the poem from the inside, looking from without, in order
to gauge its intent. Our task can be measured by Raymond
Carver's poem.
MORNING, THINKING OF EMPIRE

We press our lips to the enameled rims of the cups
And know this grease that floats
Over the coffee will one day stop our hearts.
Eyes and fingers drop onto silverware that is not
Silverware. Outside the window, waves beat against
The chipped white walls of the old city. Suddenly,
Your hands rise from the rough tablecloth
As if to prophesy. Your lips tremble . .
To hell with the future, I want to say.

Our future lies deep in the afternoon.
It is a narrow street with a cart and driver,
A driver who looks at us and hesitates,
Then shakes his head. Meanwhile,
I coolly crack the egg of a fine Leghorn chicken.
Your eyes film. You turn from me and look across
The rooftops at the sea. Even the flies are still.
I crack the other egg.
Surely we have diminished one another.
nothing mysterious at least about the physical

There is
poem. Two people, probably a man

situation presented by the
and a woman, are having breakfast together, drinking their
coffee and eating soft-boiled eggs. They are in an "old city"
by the sea — the "cart and driver" suggest Europe and the
Mediterranean. The central image (or, as described in Chapter
I, the core metaphor) seems to be based on the prosaic event
depicted and the portentous quality of "Empire" in the title

and images like hearts stopping and hands rising to prophesy
in the poem itself. The reader-poet who has himself attempted
to make a poem of a glance from a loved one, of a remark by
a stranger, of a strange feeling about what will happen to him
that day, of any of the things Langer calls "unspeakable," will
sense something about the intent of this poem and will know
the difficulties it presented the poet. Poetry is in large part the
process of putting the unspeakable into words, and that is what
is going on in "Morning, Thinking of Empire."
The reader-poet will recognize the care with which the

coffee-drinking and egg-cracking images are made. These things
the poem can present overtly; they begin as simple physical
acts. Yet they are made into more than that and they frame
—
the heart of the poem the hands rising, the lips trembling,
damning the future with bravado. Having made poems himself,
the reader will more readily recognize how meticulously this
portrait of something felt but unspeakable between two people
has been constructed.
Take simply "silverware that isnot / Silverware." Again a
prosaic detail; we are all familiar with the convention of calling
forks and knives silverware whether they are made of silver
or not. Yet here the poet has isolated that convention, trans-
formed it into a small significant vision that reverberates
through the whole. The reader, as poet, has worked to make
the prosaic into the significant; silverware that is not silver will
be understood by him.
Why is the poem entitled "Morning, Thinking of Empire,"
and how does having written poems equip the reader to answer
this question? First and most obvious, the reader has had to
make choices about the titles of his own poems. He knows the
difference between a comparatively neutral title (for example,
"Spring," "Love Song") and one that is potent, that contributes
to the meanings of the poem. Neutral titles are essentially
labels; often they are simply taken from the first line of the
poem. The word "Empire," especially, repeated nowhere else
in the poem, signifies that this title of itself contributes to the
meanings of the poem. The effect of the title, then, is part of the
intent of the poem. I suggest that having had to attend to his

own titles, the reader will be more sensitive to this one, and
will more readily recognize expanding the scope
its effect in
of the poem: what is going on between these two people is at

once small and vast —the title signals this.
A possible meaning to be made of the poem is that the
"Empire" is and that these people, while break-
historical,
fasting in a strange land, are brought by their surroundings
to gloomy thoughts on the perishability of great empires like
those of Rome and Egypt. Is this a maverick meaning, one
untrue or at least secondary to the poem's intent? I think so.
Further, I maintain that the reader who is also a poet will be
able to recognize it as such because he will apprehend that
the intent of the poem is to present the ineffable failure two
people feel at that moment about what they have done with
themselves. But why is the reader who has made poems any
more likely to perceive this (if you agree with me about the
intent) than one who has not? The answer lies in what was
said earlier. The reader has himself tried to put the unspeak-
able into words, he senses how it is being done here. He knows
that the poet cannot say, "This problem we have is at once
intimate and huge," but must rely on the evocative power of a
title like "Morning, Thinking of Empire" to suggest the im-
mensity of the failure experienced by the poem's protagonists.

"Surely we have diminished one another" making poems —
himself will have taught the reader how difficult it is to end
a poem (which we saw also in Chapter I). Is the final line
"right"? I suspect that reader-poets will argue over this. What
if the poem had ended with "I crack the other egg"? The reader
would be left with the hard crack of the shell, a breaking that
could symbolize all that has gone wrong. This side of the
argument finds the last line too explicit; it states more than
evokes and should therefore have been omitted. The other
side might argue for the last line because without it too much
is left open; without it the poet forfeits a degree of control
over the meanings evoked by the poem. The last line thus can
be said to epitomize the intent of the poem, for it leaves no
doubt that the "Empire" is first and foremost one built by the
two people, that the emotional currents are flowing directly
between them, rather than being generated by time, place, or
history.
Ido not mean to suggest that there is only one meaning

to the poem and that it is accessible to the poetry-writing
reader alone. Nor do I mean to imply that having made one
or several poems guarantees that a reader will respond more
fully and more faithfully to the poems of others. The point is
simply that I think the reader who is also a poet is more likely
to be able to distinguishbetween idiosyncratic and integral
meanings and is more likely to be sensitive to how the poem
works. Having labored through the difficult process of making
—
poems himself and having had to be both poet and reader
while so doing —he is likely to be more attentive to the process
of poems written by others.
Concerning "Morning, Thinking of Empire" alone, I con-
tend that having worked, himself, on poems will cause the
—
reader to think as the poet might about the details of imagery,
about the function of the title, about the way the poem ends;
in short, about the problems the poet faced in realizing the
poem's intent. A reader who has never written a poem might
do this also, but the reader-poet virtually has to.
Inspired by a Jacques Cousteau documentary film on the
hippopotamus, and particularly by the way the hippos seemed
virtually to dance on the river bottom, I wrote a poem called
"How Hippos Make Love."
In fat water
fat hippos
dance
with soft flow
like bread dough
kneaded by fat
fingers, slowly.
They tiptoe
so light
the bottommud 10
balloons
them upward
til their ears
periscope.
Coming down
the buoyant male
settles gently
as a soap sud
upon the broadest
welcome: and this 20
is how hippos make love.
A friend of mine asked me, after he and his wife had read the
poem several times and discussed it between themselves,
whether I intended the repetition of "fat" in the first stanza
or if I What a ques-
just couldn't think of another adjective.
tion! Of course intended to repeat "fat" over and over in an
I
attempt to make the whole world of the poem exude fatness.

—
My friend is hardly a philistine he and his wife are both
accomplished musicians and generally knowledgeable about
the arts. Yet he has never written a poem, a fact that makes
his question less absurd. Since he had never been engaged in
the process of choosing each word the way one does in making
a poem, he couldn't know how unequivocally intentional all
the words of this poem are. Whether or not the repetition of
"fat" works is another question. It may very well be that it
didn't for my friend. The strategy may fail insofar as "fat

water," "fat hippos," "fat fingers" do not evoke at least ap-
proximately the effect intended. But there is no question of the
conscious intent on my part.
Consider Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn" particularly the —
third stanza.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
II
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
—
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
ill
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
IV
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 4°
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," —that is all
50
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
—
The (physical) center of this poem is laden with "happy,"

repeated over and over. If we could talk with Keats, we should
hardly ask him if he intended this repetition or if it is a mis-
take. Understanding the intent of the repetition is crucial to
apprehending the intent of the poem as a whole. One of the
meanings I make of the poem is that of paradox, the great joy
of the unfulfilled. The "Cold Pastoral" of the last stanza ex-
—
presses the paradox most fully for me that a warm and lustful
scene, so full of passion and life, can also be cold, silent, and
unchanging.
I put myself in the poet's place and see him at work, striv-
ing to evoke at once the austere dignity of the eternal urn and
the flesh-and-blood delight of the scene painted on it. I sense
that to do this he created a poem that starts off slowly, almost
somberly, depicting the urn. It accelerates, builds to a cres-
cendo in the third stanza. The poet cannot do enough to con-
vey the exuberance of the scene he sees, both literally and in
his imagination, created by the urn. In a sense, his presentation
is of a happiness beyond happiness. The most eloquent ex-
pression of this can only be (paradoxically) the kind of in-

articulateness born of awe that causes us to repeat the expres-
sion which we hope will approximate what we feel and wish
to evoke in others. (In this context, I remember the line
"Wonderful! Wonderful! And yet more wonderful!")
There are no questions asked of the urn in the third
stanza; instead, there are passionate exclamations by the nar-
—
rative persona. With the resumption of question-asking this I
think distances the narrative persona from the urn in the —
fourth stanza, the poem begins a deacceleration until broken
by the upswing of the last stanza that culminates with the cry
"Cold Pastoral!"
My apprehension of intent and the meaning-making evoked
for me by Keats' "Ode" are integral. The meaning
I make, that
of interdependence between an eternal calm and an immediate

passion, emerges from how I perceive the poem being made.
The repetition of "happy," particularly relevant to my own
poem, is just a beginning of the process of empathetic creation
(or re-creation) that characterizes my response to the poem.
I cannot say, "This is what Keats did," or "This is why he did
such and such"; but I can imagine what he might have con-
—
sciously striven to do and the reasons for it. It is this kind of

imagining that can bring the respondent into the mental and
emotional constellation of the artist.
The famous lines " 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' that is —
all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" must not
contrary to common practice —be treated as assertion. The

tenets of our poetic advise us that poetry is not the statement
of great ideas or principles, but a presentation of the expe-
rience of having the idea. Thus I do not put Keats' seeming
proclamation to any test of logic. I do not ask if " 'Beauty is
truth, truth beauty' " is true in any empirical or philosophical
sense. An argument, philosophical or empirical, could wander
Inconclusively for days. And so it should. Keats is not saying
that all that is ugly must be false, any more than he is saying
all that is beautiful must be true. Such thoughts couldn't be
further from the intent of these lines —or of the poem—as I
perceive it. The poetpresenting an idea (or, perhaps more

is
appropriately, a vision) born equally of his experience in mak-

ing the poem and his imaginative response to the urn.
Thus we treat this as other than a poem if we find in
Keats' lines a "Romantic manifesto," as do some critics and
teachers. There is no manifesto of the Romantics here, any
more than there is a manifesto of modern poets in MacLeish's
"Ars Poetica," which we considered earlier "A poem should

—
not mean / But be." Both ideas or visions are "true" only
insofar as they are true to the intent of the poem, if they
succeed as part of the endings of poems in helping us to re-
create for ourselves the experience of coming upon them, of
conceiving them.
What does our notion of intent do for the dilemmas of
response we discussed? Does a fresh start with "Elsie" (p. 78),
or "The Sheep Child" (p. 81), or "On the Late Massacre in
Piemont" (p. 91), approaching them with a strategy of em-
pathetic re-creation, help us to distinguish idiosyncratic from
faithful response?
The question is rhetorical. I am convinced that concern
with the intent of these poems will discipline response in a
way that makes the plastic cow clearly not viable in response
to "Elsie." Nor will a rebirth-of-Christ meaning hold for
"The Sheep Child." And Milton's poem presents the con-
quest of good over evil, rather than an arrogant injunction of

vengeance.
Returning briefly to Williams' poem, we should ask our-
selves why we, as reader-poets, would entitle that poem "Elsie."
Apart from its meanings, the dominant images of the poem
clearly are those of poverty-stricken rural America. If we were
to choose a name in keeping with such images, what would be
our choice? Although I personally know no one named Elsie,
I can understand Williams' choice. In fact, I understand it
—
better for not knowing any Elsie my world is that of the
university and the middle class. Moving back and forth be-
tween the images and meanings of the poem and its title, the
appropriateness of the name "Elsie" becomes apparent to me.
"Elsie" has a farm-girl aura, to which its unfashionableness
contributes. It is slightly out of date, unfamiliar, and connotes
a distant, rapidly diminishing, agrarian society. In deciding on
—
"Elsie" myself that is, trying to share the poet's mental and
—
emotional constellation I find no room for a meaning based
on the Borden's trademark.
The Christ-reborn meaning of "The Sheep Child" is ap-
pealing because it is clever. But in its cleverness also lies its
weakness. It lacks concern with poetic intent; it is a reader's

game, seeing how far the poem's meanings can be stretched
to encompass unlikely ones. I perceive the intent of the poem
as a presentation of the myth of rural America. If this were
not poet would not so exclusively draw on the images
so, the
and associations particular to American farm life. The barns
and pastures, the soft-wooded trees and pinestraw, the foxes
and dewy pastures, the wolves, hounds, and bean fields put —
together, these all present American farm life, even without
the explicit reference to the southern city of Atlanta, in the
midst of farming country. If I were a poet working with a
theme so universal Second Coming, I would not allow
as the
my images to be so particularized; on the other hand, if I were
a poet who knew a part of this country well, and intended to
make a poem of the land and its legends, I would attempt to
present its particular images, sounds, smells—the "feel" of the
countryside —as fully as possible. This the poet has done.
Further, I sense that the intent of the poem is to present
the lives of the farm boys as much as it is to present the birth,
—
death, and life in legend of the sheep-child. The poem begins

and ends by talking about the lives of the farm boys, and the
closing presents the farm boys living out their days, mundanely
for the most part, but still haunted by the legend, by the pos-
sibility within themselves of the kind of union of which the
sheep-child was born. My poem on the rebirth of Christ were —
I to attempt one —
could not end in this fashion. His Second
Coming would not be so localized and inauspicious as to leave
a bunch of farm boys to masturbatory fantasies and the or-
dinary upbringing of their families.
My empathetic re-creation of "On the Late Massacre in
Piemont" requires that I consider the effects of the persona's
imperative voice. Were I the poet, why would I choose to speak
to God in outright demands, or possibly even dare to command
God? In re-creating the poem, I "become" Milton. This does
not mean I will read political motivation into the poem
reading the poem as a political tract perverts it, and assigning
extrapoetic motivation to the author smacks of intentionalism.
What I must try to do is to imagine why Milton, as poet,
not as politician, chose to write the sonnet as he did. In so
—
doing, I come to regard the imperative tone "Avenge, O Lord,"
"Forget not" —as a carefully conceived rhetorical device. We
are not to take the commands literally; they exist to evoke
moral outrage and righteousness. The poet does not actually
believe he can command God. But he does believe he can in-
spire in his readers the same revulsion he feels toward the
massacre; he also believes he can offer hope a moral vision —
of a restoration of order, of a world in which such crimes will
—
not be tolerated. Hence it is the tone not the literal content
of the commands that is important. The one gives an Old
Testament quality to the poem. My empathetic re-creation leads
me to perceive the poet as prophet, inveighing against the evils
of the world, and of course addressing himself to God as well
as to his readers.
In pursuit of integrating principles for our poetic, a num-
ber of terms have been used to describe response to poems
"self-experience" (Coleridge), "participation mystique" (Jung),
"the same emotional attitude, the same mental constellation"
(Freud), and "empathetic re-creation" (mine). They all lead
us to a single, fundamental precept: our response to poetry is
more likely to be at once fully explorative of meanings and

capable of distinguishing among the fidelity of meanings if we
ourselves have made poems. Response requires that we re-
create the poem. We can be better re-creators for having been
creators.
Our initial question was "How do we judge meanings
made by the reader?" Our answer is in two parts. First, we
cannot do so absolutely. Response is an art; or, if we
itself
reserve the term "art" for the creation of an original work,
response is most certainly an intricate process in which there
are no absolute standards for judgment. But, as a process, re-
sponse can comprise better and worse strategies and methods.
Thus the second part of our answer: having established a
concept of poetic intent and a strategy for gauging that intent,
we can attempt to discriminate among those responses that are
more and less faithful to the intent of a given poem. In this
lies the discipline of response. The reader must be able not
only to let his imagination and emotions range widely among
the meanings evoked by the poem, he must also be able to
govern and shape the scope of his activity so it lies within the
realm of the poem's intent. The discipline of response is what
I have called empathetic re-creation. Re-creation itself is not
enough, it must be tempered by the reader's conscious effort

to empathize with the poet, to get into the poet's skin, to sense
what the poet was trying to do in making that particular poem.
The poem, I have insisted, is not so much a product as a
process. Our poetic has described the process as excited, pre-
cise, evocative, presentational, full of meanings and generative
of meaning-making. Empathetic re-creation is not a concept
now tobe superimposed on an already established poetic. It is

—
rather to be interwoven through all the strands every aspect
of the poetic depends on it. To apprehend the excitement of
language in poetry, to appreciate the precision with which a
poem presents an image, to feel the power of evocation all —
these are enhanced by our being able to re-create the poem
empathetically, to engage ourselves imaginatively in its com-
plete process, from inception to abandonment.
As empathetic re-creators, we might well try our skills and
imaginations with this poem by John Dryden. How do we
choose among meanings we can make of the "Grand Chorus"
in particular?
A SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY

NOVEMBER 22, 1687
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony

This universal frame began:
When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high:
Arise, ye more than dead!
Then cold, hot, and moist, and dry
and
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey. 10
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony

This universal frame began:
From Harmony to Harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.
II
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound. 20
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
in
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms
With shrill notes of anger
And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum 30
Cries, "Hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"
IV
The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers
—
The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge iswhisper'd by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains and height of passion 40
For the fair disdainful dame.
VI
But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
VII
Orpheus could lead the savage race,

And trees unrooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre: 50
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:

When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking Earth for Heaven!
GRAND CHORUS
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To the blest above;
all
So, when
the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 6°
The trumpet shall be heard on high,

The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
RECONNAISSANCE
Here are the lyrics oftwo rock songs, "The Love You Save
(May Be Your Own)" by Joe Tex, and "For What It's Worth"
by Stephen Stills. Consider each separately and decide whether
you would call either or both of these lyrics poetry.
THE LOVE YOU SAVE

(May Be Your Own)
People I've been misled

And l ve been afraid
f
I've been hit in the head

And left for dead.
I'vebeen abused,
And I've been accused
Been refused a piece of bread.
But I ain't never in my life before

Seen so many love affairs go wrong
10
As I do today.
I want you to stop!
Find out what's wrong.

Get it right, or just leave love alone
Because the love you save today
May very well be your own.
I've been pushed around.
I've been lost and found,
I've been given 'til sundown
To get out of town.
20
I've been taken outside,
127
128
And I've been brutalized

And I had to be always the one to smile
And apologize.
But I ain't never in my life before

Seen so many love affairs go wrong
As I do today.
I want you to stop!
Find out what's wrong.

Get it right, or just leave love alone
Because the love you save today 30
May very well be your own.

JOE TEX
FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH

There's something happenin' here.
What it is ain't exactly clear.
There's a man with a gun over there,
Tellin' me I've got to beware.
It's time we stop, children,
What's that sound?

Everybody look what's goin' down.
There's battle lines bein' drawn,

Nobody's right if everybody's wrong.
Young people speakin' their minds, 10
Gettin' so much resistance from behind.

What's that sound?

What a field day for the heat.

A thousand people in the street,
Singin' songs and carryin' signs.
Mostly saying, "Hooray for our side."
What's that sound? 20

129
Paranoia strikes deep,

Into your life it will creep.
It starts when you're always afraid,
Step out of line, the Man come

And take you away.
You better stop, hey,
What's that sound?
STEPHEN STILLS
(for The Buffalo Springfield)
V
NEW USES FOR A POETIC:
ROCK LYRICS AND
FOUND POETRY
Don't care to hear 'em play a tango,
I'm in no mood to hear a mambo;
It's 'way too early for a congo,
So keep a-rockin' that piano.
So I can hear some of that rock 'n' roll music,
Any old way you choose it.
CHUCK BERRY
We have developed a poetic that does not depend at all on the

formal structures of poetry. It is independent of rhyme, verse
form, intention, subject matter, and traditions of imagery,
diction, and symbolism. It is wholly dependent on response,
on the interaction between the language used and reaction of
the respondent. As such, our poetic is an instrument not only
for describing poetry but for discerning it as well. We might,
for example, apply the poetic to an interesting or provocative
sign in a store window advertising a spring fashion show, and
reasonably ask ourselves whether the language of that sign
constitutes poetry. If the language is at once precise and ex-
cited; if it inspires us to make meanings; if we can, through
empathetic re-creation, imagine a poetic intent in the language
—
used then we might well consider the sign in the window to
be poetry, and unannounced poetry at that. We are then not
only the readers but the discoverers of a poem.
A number of critics, most of them outside academe, have
begun, in a not dissimilar way, to discover the poetry of rock
music. 1 Books about the songs and their writers have titles
1
I will use the term "rock" broadly to describe popular music from the 1950s to the
present. The distinctionbetween rock 'n' roll, folk-rock, and rhythm and blues is
important musically —but not to a discussion of the lyrics as such.
130
131 NEW USES FOR A POETIC
likeThe Poetry of Rock and New Poets/New Music. Donovan

Leitchis compared to Wordsworth, John Lennon to Joyce, and
Bob Dylan to Walt Whitman. 2 Some textbooks on poetry have

begun to include, albeit hesitantly, the lyrics of a few of the
best-known "poetic" rock songs. The 1972 edition of Louis
Simpson's An Introduction to Poetry, 3 for example, offers
"Eleanor Rigby" and "Desolation Row" as the penultimate se-
lections of its "Anthology of Poems."
The question of whether rock lyrics are in fact poetry
remains at this moment unanswered. But there are broad as-
sumptions made by those on both sides of the question. A
book like A. Poulin's Contemporary American Poetry* which
ignores Dylan, Paul Simon, Arlo Guthrie, and Janis Ian, and
sticks faithfully to poets like W. S. Merwin, Sylvia Plath, and
Robert Lowell, quietly assumes that the lyricists are not poets.
The counterassumption is not so quiet. The editors of Mew
Poets/ New Music state in no uncertain terms (in the second
sentence of the book) that "these lyrics represent the main-
stream of contemporary poetry." 5
An anthology that is entitled Contemporary American
Poetry and excludes Bob Dylan may be incomplete. But the
declaration that the lyrics of Dylan and his contemporaries
comprise the mainstream of contemporary poetry is un-
founded. The editors of both kinds of books implicitly and
overtly generalize broadly; they fail to examine both the poetic
on which their assumptions are based and the lyrics them-
selves as poems or possible poems.
When Stephen Spender, the poet, and Frank Kermode, the
critic, debate whether Bob Dylan is a poet or not, we might
expect some articulation of poetic expectations or requirements
to emerge. 6 But we are disappointed.. Kermode seems to argue
that Dylan is a poet because, like Shakespeare (and Bee-
thoven), he has "four periods." The first three of Dylan's
periods are "protest," "a more complex notion of the truth,"
2
Richard Goldstein, ed., The Poetry of Rock (New York: Bantam Books, 1968), p. 11.
3
Louis Simpson, ed., An Introduction to Poetry, 2nd ed. (New York: St. Martin's
Press, 1972).
4
Contemporary American Poetry (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1971).
A. Poulin,
6
John Schmittroth and John Mahoney, eds., New Poets/New Music (Cambridge,
Mass.: Winthrop, 1970).
6
"Bob Dylan: The Metaphor at the End of the Funnel," Esquire (May 1972), pp.
108-09, 118, 188.
NEW USES FOR A POETIC 132
and "musical experimentation and pastiche." 7 Kermode does

not say what the fourth period is or will be; but after com-
paring Dylan to Shakespeare in this fashion, he offers other
—
comparisons Dylan has this in common with Rimbaud, that
with Eliot, and yet another quality with Pound. Nowhere do
we find a clear —much less a defensible—poetic.
On his side of the argument, Spender is if anything less
persuasive. He contends that Dylan
not a true poet because,
is
in sum: "The trouble is [the song lyrics] don't really come out
of the front line, or the frontier, or poverty. They come out of
the entertainment industry, and immense sums are being
made." 8
What we need is the use of an articulated poetic first of all.
It is possible to read endlessly the articles written about the

poetry of rock without ever finding out what the authors mean
by poetry. 9 Next, the poetic must be viable; it cannot rely on tra-
ditional assumptions about poetry. I am surprised to find how
many of the discoverers of the "new poetry" define poetry by
outmoded Writing about Jacques Brel, Nat Shapiro
criteria.
tells us that the French singer's lyrics are undoubtedly poetry
because of "his burning imagery, his brilliantly controlled

rhythmic patterns, and his superb sense of dramatic con-
struction." 10 John Mahoney uses a thematic argument to de-
scribe Leonard Cohen's lyrics as poetry, contending that the
"religious imagery" and the "reevaluation of love" in Cohen's
songs make him a "poet of the sacred and of the profane." ai
And Paul D. McGlyn argues that Donovan is a poet because
his work falls within the tradition of poet as prophet. 12
Such reasons don't hold, any more than do Spender's or
Kermode 's, given our poetic. We know that there is no tra-
ditional role for the poet, just as there is no specific subject
matter that defines poetry. We have seen that, while qualities
of imagery, rhythm, and drama may infuse poetry, they do not
serve to characterize it any more than they characterize the
novel or the short story, in which they can also be found. In
light of such flaws in poetic theory, Richard Goldstein's ob-
7
Ibid., pp. 109, 118.
8 Ibid., p. 188.
9
See also John Schmittroth's piece on Joni Mitchell in New Poets/New Music.
10
Schmittroth and Mahoney, New Poets/New Music, p. 10.
" Ibid., pp. 22-24.
» Ibid., pp. 34-40.
servations in The Poetry of Rock seem more tenable. The title
of his book notwithstanding, Goldstein merely flirts with the

idea that rock lyrics are poetry. First he posits that "today,
it is possible to suggest without risking defenestration that
some of the best poetry of our time may well be contained

within those slurred couplets [of rock lyrics]." But then Gold-
stein demurs, perhaps fearing after all that he will be thrown
out of the window: "But do these lyrics really amount to art?
... In a sense, assertions like these are the worst enemy of
liberated rock. They enslave it with an artificial heritage." 13
This is equivocation of a high order, but Goldstein's book is
among the better commentaries on the status of rock lyrics as
poetry. That an intelligent critic is so ambivalent about his
theme is symptomatic of the underlying uncertainty concern-
ing the validity of the "new music" as "new poetry."
In addition to using an articulated and viable poetic as an
instrument of discernment, we need to examine rock lyrics
individually, just as we do poems. This may seem obvious,
but the literature about rock lyrics has spun its wheels, so to
speak, by applying full throttle even when the terrain is slip-
pery. Rather than differentiating Chuck Berry from Stephen
Stills, or Arlo Guthrie from Paul Simon, the champions of rock
as poetry have lumped them together. Thus sound judgment

and defensible argumentation have proved elusive.
We have a poetic (articulated and, I think, viable). So our
task becomes that of examining the lyrics of individual songs.
A point of clarification is in order before we begin, however:
nothing in our investigation presumes that the lyricists them-
selves claim to be poets. Some do; many don't. Dylan's lines
"a song is anything that can walk by itself / i am a songwriter,
a poem is a naked person some people say i am a poet" seem
. . .
to sum up the situation of many rock lyricists. But whether

or not the lyricist lays claim to poetry is irrelevant. Rock
lyrics are a powerful artistic phenomenon of our time; in many
—
aspects they would seem on the surface to be poetry; plenty —
of advocates and some of the authors assert that they are
poetry: this, plus our own interest in poetry and the develop-
ment of our poetic, provides the material for our query.
Chuck Berry, considered by most advocates to be the
founding father of modern rock, wrote "Almost Grown."
13
The Poetry of Rock, pp. 3, 11.
Yeah, I'm doing all right in school,

They ain't said I've broke no rule,
I ain't never been in Dutch,
I don't browse around too much;
Don't bother me, leave me alone,
Anyway I'm almost grown.
I don't run around with no mob,
I got myself a little job.
I'm gonna buy myself a little car,
I'll drive my girl in the park; 10

I got my eye on a little girl,
Ah, she's really out of this world,

When I take her out to a dance,
She's gotta talk about romance;
You know I'm still livin' in town,
But done married and settled down,
I 20
Now I really have a ball,

So I don't browse around at all;
These stanzas have meter, certainly, and interesting variations

("car" and "park," "girl" and "world") on a basic rhyme
scheme. The language, even Coleridge would acknowledge, is
excited, especially the refrain, "Don't bother me, leave me
alone, / Anyway I'm almost grown." Furthermore, if the end
of poetry is to produce pleasure, these stanzas succeed the —
colloquialisms, the strong speech rhythms, and the insistence
of the refrain make "Almost Grown" pleasurable to read or
hear. Is it poetry?
I think the answer is no. "Almost Grown" is neither precise
enough nor presentational enough to be characterized as poetry.

To illustrate why I find lack of precision, consider the first line
of the refrain, "Don't bother me, leave me alone." What does
"Don't bother me" mean if not "leave me alone"? half the line —
is redundant, since it adds nothing to the meaning of the lyric
as a poem. Considered strictly as words to a song, or as verse,

the phrase "leave me alone" can be justified rhythmically and

also for the rhyme: "alone" and "grown." But what works in
a song may not work in a poem; as we have seen, each word,
each line of a poem must be its own justification as well as
contributing to the meanings of the whole.
We can describe "I ain't never been in Dutch" similarly.
The colloquial expression "in Dutch" is appealing, but the
persona has already told us, "I'm doing all right in
school, / They ain't said I've broke no rule." Not to belabor
the obvious, it should be clear that these lyrics are simply not
tight enough, or, in Coleridge's sense, precise enough, to be
poetry.
It is making meanings is crucial
also apparent that since
to poetry, "Almost Grown" is not a poem. It states too much
to be a poem; there is very little for the reader or listener to
do by way of meaning-making or empathetic re-creation. "So
I don't browse around at all" is mildly evocative primarily —
because "browse" is suggestive of a nonchalant shopper but —
the rest of the song simply tells a story, from school days
through courtship to marriage.
With the poetic as our instrument, then, we find that
"Almost Grown" has one of the qualities of poetry: excited
language. It does not have the others. Because of the song's
strong elements of rhythm and rhyme, it might be characterized
as verse, but not poetry.
Two comments: One, it may appear that "Almost Grown"
is too easy to dismiss as verse rather than poetry, that it is a
straw man for arguments against rock as poetry. Yet among

those who assert that rock lyrics are poetry, "Almost Grown"
is an important historical example of the burgeoning of poetry
in rock. 14 Two, it must be clear that any judgment made about

lyrics as poetry cannot be construed as a judgment of the song
(words and music combined). It may be that some of the best
songs have those lyrics we can most readily decide are not
poetry. We are not discussing music here, only the lyrics of
songs presented linearly on a page or spoken, rather than sung,
to us.
To underscore this second comment, we can look at the
lyrics to "Heartbreak Hotel," by Mae Boren Axton, Tommy
Durden, and Elvis Presley.
14
Ibid., pp. 15-19.
Now, since my baby left me

found a new place to dwell,
I've
Down at the end of Lonely Street
At Heartbreak Hotel.
I'm so lonely,
I'm so lonely,
I'm so lonely,
That I could die.
And tho' it's always crowded,
You can still find some room 10
For broken-hearted lovers

To cry there in the gloom
And be so lonely,
Oh, so lonely,
Oh, so lonely
They could die.
The bell hop's tears keep flowing,
The desk clerk's dressed in black.
They've been so long on Lonely Street,
They never will go back. 20
And they're so lonely.

Oh, they're so lonely,
They're so lonely
They pray to die.
So, if your baby leaves
And you have a tale to tell,
Just take a walk down Lonely Street
To Heartbreak Hotel,
Where you'll be so lonely,
And I'll be so lonely. 30
We'll be so lonely
That we could die.
This is a fine song; these lyrics are powerfully rhythmic, the

rhymes are neither forced nor trite, and the language is precise
—each word carries weight as the lyric builds to the final,
its
despairing couplet, "We'll be so lonely / That we could die."

"Heartbreak Hotel" does not display the imprecision we
found in "Almost Grown." Further, the image created of the
hotel with its weeping bellhop, funereal desk clerk, and, of
course, woeful inmates is vivid. I even find that the denizens
of Heartbreak Hotel have the aura of Dante's damned, churning
in the underworld. Yet despite these qualities of the lyric, I
don't consider "Heartbreak Hotel" to be a poem. Like "Almost

Grown," it is discursive rather than presentational. There is
more statement than from the associations

evocation. Apart
with Dante, I find that there is virtually no meaning-making,
no empathetic re-creation allowed by the lyrics. What we have
is the account — —
in song of the fate of abandoned and dis-
consolate lovers. We cannot make meanings or imagine the
cause of the despair of those who patronize Heartbreak Hotel,
nor are we free to imagine what goes on there. It is all told
to us.
"Sally, Go 'Round the Roses" is quite a different kind of
lyric. One critic describes its refrain as like something from
Waiting for Godot, and observes that it is open to a "gaggle of
15
interpretations."
Sally, go 'round the roses.

Sally, go 'round the pretty roses.
The roses, they can't hurt you.

No, the roses, they can't hurt you.
The roses, they can't hurt you.
No, the roses, they can't hurt you.
Sally, doncha doncha go downtown.

go,
Sally, doncha doncha go downtown.
go, 10
The saddest thing in this whole wide world

Is to see your baby with another girl.

Sally, go 'round the pretty roses.
They won't your secrets.

tell
They won't your secrets.
tell
They won't tell your secrets.
No, the roses won't tell your secrets. 20
Sally, baby, cry; let your hair hang down.

Sally, baby, cry; let your hair hang down.
15
Ibid., p. 34.
—
Sit and cry where the roses grow,

You can sit and cry and not a soul will know.
Sally go 'round the roses.
ZEL SANDERS and LONA STEVENS

(for the Jaynettes)
Nursery rhymes, religious epiphany, sexual mystery (possibly

including lesbianism), and a vast tradition of symbolism based
on the rose —these are all suggested by "Sally, Go 'Round the
Roses."
The tension is obviously between the rose garden and
"downtown." The roses of the song seem to be purely benevo-
lent ones. I think of Burns' "O my Luve's like a red, red
rose / That's newly sprung in June"; of Shakespeare's "A rose
by any name would smell as sweet"; and also of Shakespeare's
"Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud" (see p. 87)
although Sally's roses appear to be thornless and incapable of
hurt. The silent, healing effect of the roses is contrasted with
the perils of "downtown," where evil is seen and secrets are
not kept.
What kind of love affair is described? What are the
"secrets" that inspire Sally's tears and that the roses will
guard? I find it easy to reject the notion of lesbianism. There
is enough precedent in rock themes to lead me to a more
straightforward interpretation. Sally's man (her "baby") has
left her and with another woman. If Sally goes "downtown"
is
—
she will see him with his new love hence the advice of the
song that she stay in the garden and shed her tears in silence
among the roses. Although the roses and "let your hair hang
down" mildly suggest Christian penitence, I tend to think that
Sally's mourning, her "secrets," and her undone hair are simply
the accoutrements of unrequited love she is an abandoned —
woman in a wholly secular situation, rather than a species of
saint or martyr.
Earlier, we distinguished between interpretations and
meaning-making; this distinction will help us now to decide
whether "Sally, Go 'Round the Roses" is a poem. Then we said
that interpreting is a kind of "figuring out," whereas making
meaning involves experiencing the various alternatives evoked
by the poem. I suggest that "Sally, Go 'Round the Roses" is not
a poem becauseit does not evoke meaning-making, although
it does inspire interpretation. Like a puzzle, it confuses the

reader and requires that he ponder alternative solutions in
order to understand the lyrics. But unlike a poem, it does not
create, or inspire the reader to create, the virtual, felt reality
of possible meanings. Put more simply, these lyrics do not
evoke enough meaning to be a poem.
The lyrics do not so much open up meaning as establish
its perimeters. Rather than using the lyrics as a catapult into
his own imaginative world, the reader simply fills in meaning.

The nursery rhyme repetition is largely responsible for this
limitation of the lyrics. "Sally, go 'round the roses," the line
that is stated seven times in a song totaling twenty-five lines,
contributes to a chanting effect but does not open possibilities
of meaning. After a point (two lines repeated?) it is no longer
evocative. The similar but less extreme repetitions of "The
roses, they can't hurt you" and "They won't tell your secrets"
impose the same limitations on meaning. We may conclude
generally that poetry has less tolerance for repetition than
song.
The shortcoming of "Almost Grown" and "Heartbreak
Hotel" — —
as poems is that they tell too much. "Sally, Go
'Round the Roses" is not a poem because it presents too little.
There is not enough concrete imagery, detailed and developed
as we move through the lyric, to afford us possibilities for our
own experience. We are outside Sally, looking at her. We may
have to figure out her situation, but we do not have to feel it.
The discursive nature of rock lyrics like "Almost Grown"
and "Heartbreak Hotel" is by far the most common limitation
when they are considered as poetry. It characterizes the songs
of lyricists otherwise as dissimilar as Phil Spector ("To Know
Him Is to Love Him"), Arlo Guthrie ("The Motorcycle Song,"
"Alice's Restaurant"), Johnny Cash ("IWalk the Line"), and
Van Morrison ("Brown Eyed Girl"). The lyric can be forceful,
vivid, and intensely rhythmical, and it can make use of simile
—
or metaphor adroitly but if it tells rather than presents, it
is not poetry.
"Summer in the City," by John Sebastian, Mark Sebastian,

and Steve Boone (for The Lovin' Spoonful), is an example of
how far rock can go, to the borders of poetry, if you will, with-
out being poetry.
Hot town,
Summer in the city.
Back o' my neck gettin' dirty and gritty.
Been down
Isn't it a pity;
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city.
All around
People lookin' half-dead,
Walkin' on the sidewalk hotter than a matchhead.
But at night it's a different world. 10
Go out and find a girl.

Come on, come on and dance all night;
Despite the heat, it'll be all right.
And babe,
Don't you know it's a pity
That the days can't be like the nights
In the summer in the city.
Cool town
Evening in the city
Dressed so fine and lookin' so pretty. 20
Cool cat,
Lookin' for a kitty;
Gonna look in every corner of the city.
Til I'm wheezin' like a bus stop
Running up the stairs
Gonna meet you on the rooftop.
This is genuinely masterful verse. The drive of the two-

("Hot town," "Been down," "All around," "And
stress first lines
babe," "Cool town," "Cool cat") of all but the middle stanza,
the movement through time and mood, and the precise imagery
combine to create a powerful whole. Descriptive impact is
derived from both the attention to realistic detail "Back o' my
—
neck gettin' dirty and gritty," "Doesn't seem to be a shadow in
— —
the city" and the use of simile "Walkin' on the sidewalk
hotter than a matchhead," "Til I'm wheezin' like a bus stop."
We are there, on those streets, scorched and aware of the soot
clinging to our skin. The idyll of evening cool, when people
parade in new clothes, is in sharp contrast; yet like the humid,
turgid heat, it is a real part of summer in the city.
The best line in the song, I think, is "Doesn't seem to be

a shadow in the city." I cannot envision a more forceful image
of merciless heat: I am at the bottom of a concrete canyon
and yet there are no shadows; the sun, reflected on all sides,
is inescapable. "Sidewalk hotter than a matchhead" is also a
strong image, fashioned by simile. It partakes vaguely of a

cliche (the street hot enough to fry an egg) but in itself is
wholly original and combines not only a sense of heat but also
of explosiveness. The hot matchhead may in an instant erupt
into flame. What of "wheezin' like a bus stop"? The buses
certainly wheeze, but the bus stop? Or perhaps we should
imagine a passenger wheezing from his gallop down the block
to catch the bus.
These fine lines are offset, when we consider the lyric as
poetry, by lines that are essentially discursive rather than
evocative, lines that are there solely to tell the story. A poem,
in which every word, every line, must justify itself, cannot
tolerate lines that are a transition between images rather than
themselves In this song, "Go out and find a
evocative.
girl. / Come come on and dance all night" and "Running up
on,
the stairs / Gonna meet you on the rooftop" are such lines;
they tell us what action is taking place but evoke nothing.
These lines, and the several more like them, are what keep
the lyrics from being poetry.
If the element commonly limits the poetic
discursive
possibility of rock lyrics, thephenomenon of an overly presen-
tational lyric also occurs. This song, by Jim Morrison, of The
Doors, may illustrate such a lyric.
HORSE LATITUDES
When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters,
True sailing is dead.
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned,
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop,
And heads bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over.
In "Horse Latitudes," every line is presentational and

evocative; cannot find one that serves to convey information,
I
that is primarily discursive. "And the first animal is jettisoned"

—
may seem informational, but given its context the fact that
we are not told what kind of animal, from what the animal is
—
jettisoned, or why the line cannot be described as discursive.
In a sense, the lyric is "pure" poetry.
As poetry, what meanings can we make of "Horse Lati-
tudes"? A latitude is a region of the earth delineated by
distance from the North and South poles. Or latitude can refer
to a degree of freedom or permissibility granted within defined
boundaries. Given the "still sea" of the first line of the lyric, I
tentatively choose a geographic meaning for the title, although
I cannot rule out that somehow the freedom of horses is also
one of the meanings of the lyric.

—
Something is vitally wrong at sea that much is clear.
"Armor" suggests war; the currents are full of "tiny monsters";
sailing is no longer "true" and has somehow become perverted.
But what is wrong and why? Animals are jettisoned, but what
are they doing at sea anyway? Or are they sea animals? Readers
to whom I have shown these lyrics as linear poetry invariably
are befuddled. Some wonder if a boat has been attacked by a
sea serpent. Others, given "horse" in the title and "tiny mon-
sters" of the first stanza, think of sea horses and attempt a
meaning in which a ship, sea horses, and hurricane collide.
Significantly, most readers have given up, concluding that they
cannot make meaning of the lyrics.
"Horse Latitudes" is a lyric that requires that the reader
possess outside information. It provides us with an instance
in which factual knowledge about the author's intention is
required. (Remember, intention and poetic intent are not the
same thing.) What Morrison knew when he wrote these lyrics
— and what we are not likely to know when we read or hear
—
them is that Spanish galleons, en route to America, were
sometimes forced by storms to toss their cargo overboard in
order to lighten the vessel. Horses were among the cargo to

be cast into the sea. The lyric can thus be seen as inspired
by and presenting us with this awful event. 16
Once we know these facts, meanings of "Horse Latitudes"
spring into being. The first stanza presents the storm at sea; the
second, the horses heaved into the water, their struggle and
death. One meaning I make of "Horse Latitudes" is the sacrifice
of beauty to crass survival. The "sullen" currents full of "tiny
monsters" are all ugliness. The horses are helpless, noble, and
immensely beautiful. The "Poise / Delicate / Pause" of their
arched heads above the water, before succumbing "In mute
nostril agony / Carefully refined" to death, epitomizes the fate
of the beautiful pitted against the inexorable.
Other meanings, for me, involve my knowledge of the
Spanish conquistadores. By all the accounts I have read, most
of them were brutal men. They murdered and enslaved the
natives of the New World; they were motivated by ambition
of conquest and colonization. And they were greedy, eager to
rape and pillage the people they found in America. From my
bias against these Spaniards, another meaning can be made
of the fate of the horses. The horses become emblematic of the
fate of innocent, natural things at the hands of the conquista-
dores. The conquistadores, like the sea, are armored; they
sweep relentlessly across the globe, leaving all indigenous life
"In mute nostril agony."

But the Spaniards are never spoken of in the lyric. They
are an absent presence. A
reader more favorably inclined
toward them, who sees them as true Christians bringing the
New World religious salvation and the benefits of a more
developed technology, is unhampered in making quite different
meanings. For him, there may be visions of distraught sailors
engaged in an agonizing duty. This meaning has the Spaniards
—
no less victimized than the horses men and horses both are
caught in the sea's wrath, the survivors (if there are any after
all) suffer as much as those who perish.
Another meaning does not involve humans at all. Indeed,

as we have observed, there is no mention of them in the lyric
itself. Thus the wholly between the horses and the
battle is
"tiny monsters" of the "sullen and aborted / Currents." Who
16
Ibid., p. 142.
wins? Perhaps the horses triumph in death, for theirs is the

realm of grace and beauty. The sea is left to its own torments.
It should be apparent that as one reader, I consider the
lyric of "Horse Latitudes" to be poetry. It is poetry because it
is excited, precise, presentational, and evocative; as such it
encourages meaning-making by the reader and engages him as

co-poet in the act of empathetic re-creation. The poem, how-
ever, is flawed because it cannot stand alone, because it relies
too heavily on a specific factual account that might as well be
taken from a history book.
This is not, of course, to say that poets cannot assume
some knowledge of history on the part of the reader. When we
discussed the poet and his work in Chapter I, it became ap-
parent that poets must cast themselves in the role of reader
and must make decisions about what knowledge, associations,
and imaginative power they can presume their readers will
have. The author of "World War III," for example, assumed a
historical awareness of the first and second world wars on the
part of his readers, and made decisions about their response
to a poem presenting the "unthinkable" next world war. But
"Horse Latitudes," as far as I can tell by trying it out on a
number of readers, assumes a too specific and esoteric knowl-
edge of a historical event. A poem that requires a prose explana-
tion in order for the reader to enter its world is weakened by
its reliance on the doorman, no matter how sumptuous that
world is once the reader is in it.

A similar problem may exist in © "A Whiter Shade of Pale."
We skipped the light fandango
And turned cartwheels cross the floor.
Iwas feeling kind of seasick
But the crowd called out for more.
The room was humming harder
As the ceiling flew away
When we called out for another drink
The waiter brought a tray
And so it was that later
As the miller told his tale 10
That her face at first just ghostly

Turned a whiter shade of pale.
She said, "There is no reason,
And the truth is plain to see,"
—
But I wandered through my playing cards

And would not let her be
One of sixteen vestal virgins
Who were leaving for the coast
And although my eyes were open
They might just as well been closed. 20
And so it was that later

As the miller told his tale
That her face at first just ghostly
Turned a whiter shade of pale.
KEITH REID and GARY BROOKER

(for Procol Harum)
I first heard song years ago, and have admired it ever

this
since for the "A Whiter Shade of Pale," paler than pale
title.
what a superb image! Hearing it on the radio, I had not the

slightest idea what the song was about; I did, however, have a
vague hunch that its meanings might require knowledge of
some code or lexicon particular to the drug culture. (The
Beatles' "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," for example, is often
interpreted as being about LSD.) Seeing the lyrics of "A Whiter
Shade of Pale" in the form of linear poetry does not provide
me with any great assurance about its meanings except that I
cannot find evidence that such meanings are accessible only
to those familiar with drug terminology.
The mad dance, the slight nausea, the clamoring crowd,
the room "humming" and the ceiling flying away the opening—
lines present a masterful setting for whatever is to follow. But
what follows? A tale is told to a group sitting at a table; one
of the party is terribly upset by what she hears. The second
stanza would seem to involve some dialogue between the
narrative persona of the poem and the distraught woman. The
persona perhaps seduces her, rather than let her remain one
of sixteen virgins on a journey. Then the experience is rounded
out by another reference to the tale; it is told again, and again
"That her face at first just ghostly / Turned a whiter shade of
pale."
The images, both those of the opening lines and later
ones like "I wandered through my playing cards" and "sixteen
Who were leaving for the coast," are original
vestal virgins /
and evocative. Yet what holds them together? The lyric has a
—
narrative style to it —a story is being told —but there are links

missing in the story. It becomes a puzzle.
Earlier, we
criticized lyrics for including lines that served
merely to a story. In poetry such lines vitiate the presenta-
tell
tional strength of the whole. The opposite extreme images —

presented without links that effect a cohesion of the whole
is no more tenable. The transitions, words or lines that unify
the poem, must be there, but transition or unification cannot

be their sole justification.
"A Whiter Shade of Pale" lacks cohesion. Instead of
evoking meanings, it is, for me at least, simply something
to figure out. Unlike "Horse Latitudes," it does not appear that
a clue from without would release meanings in the lyric. One
possible clue, for example, is that the lyric plays on "The
Miller's Tale" of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. This is certainly
hinted at, since we have the unlikely figure (in a contemporary
song) of a miller, and he is the one who tells a tale. Chaucer's
miller narrates a tale of marital infidelity and of the undoing
of both the cuckold and his young wife's two suitors. There is
scarcely a more ribald and hilarious story in all of English
—
literature although episodes in Joyce's Ulysses may be its
equal. This miller's tale could be what turns the woman's face
"a whiter shade of pale." Yet it doesn't unleash meanings of
the lyric as a whole. We still are left with a conundrum.
Chaucer's story has nothing to do with reason or truth.
What are we to make of "She said, 'There is no reason, / And
the truth is plain to see' "? Similarly, playing cards and vestal
Chaucer tale and are not illuminated
virgins don't figure in the
by knowledge of "The Miller's Tale." Finally, the seeing-yet-
blind image ("although my eyes were open / They might just
as well been closed") remains just as incongruent and
mystifying.
None of this is to say that "A Whiter Shade of Pale"
doesn't succeed superbly as a song. I think it does. But it is
not a poem, because it does not inspire us to make meanings,

to engage in an empathetic re-creation of poetic intent.
One thing we can learn from the lyrics we've considered
so far is that among the songs considered "rock" there is
striking heterogeneity. Speaking of lyrics alone, we have found
that some are verse (comprising language used discursively
for the most part, although rhymed and metrical), others are
a mix of verse and poetry (comprising a genuinely presenta-

tional, evocative use of language interspersed with discursive
lines that serve "to tell the story"), and that some are almost
wholly imagistic (comprising a series of images that of them-
selves are evocative, but that, lacking discernible poetic intent,
fail to achieve a cohesive whole). Of this last group, "Horse
Latitudes" can become poetry for the reader once he is in-

formed of a historical event; "A Whiter Shade of Pale," even
with information about Chaucer brought to the reader's atten-
tion, seems unlikely to be responded to as poetry.
It is time we examined a lyric that clearly can, of itself,
be considered poetry. "Suzanne," by Leonard Cohen, is, I think,
such a lyric.
Suzanne takes you down

To her place near the river.
You can hear the boats go by,
You can stay the night beside her,
And you know that she's half-crazy
But that's why you want to be there,
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China,
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her, 10
Then she gets you on her wave-length

And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover.
And you want to travel with her,

And you want to travel blind,
And you know that she can trust you
'Cause you've touched her perfect body
With your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water 20
And he spent a long time watching

From a lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
That only drowning men
could see him,
He said, "All men be sailors, then,
shall
Until the sea shall free them,"
But he, himself, was broken
Long before the sky would open.
Forsaken, almost human,

He sank beneath your wisdom 30
Like a stone.
And you want to travel with him,

And you want to travel blind,
And you think you'll maybe trust him
'Cause he touched your perfect body
With his mind.
Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river.
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters, 40
And the sun pours down like honey

On our lady ofthe harbor;
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers.
There are heroes in the seaweed,
There are children in the morning,
They are leaning out for love,
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne, she holds the mirror.
And you want to travel with her, 50
You want to travel blind,

And you're sure that she can find you
'Cause she's touched her perfect body
With her mind.
This lyric, I am convinced, opens possibilities and op-

portunities of meaning-making; it is genuinely presentational
and evocative. There is no line, series of lines, or stanza that
serves merely as transition or to carry a story. The major shift
in the lyric is from Suzanne to Jesus; yet because I can perceive
a poetic intent that pervades the whole of the lyric, the shift
reveals meanings I can make, rather than confronting me with
a puzzle to solve.
There is so much and content in the
of parallel structure
stanzas about Suzanne and Jesus that make a meaning
I readily
that includes their comparison or even their co-identity. They
are both linked to the water, both are travelers who inspire
blind trust and love in others, both seem to have a prophetic
insight into the world. Being with Suzanne, being with Jesus,
and being with some mystical combination of both of them
—
(the shape of which depends on the meanings the reader

makes) isan experience created by the reader and the poem
the reader becomes the "you" of the poem. We have already
distinguished interpreting a poem from making meanings;
"Suzanne" engages us so thoroughly as empathetic re-creators
of its meanings that there is no question of our merely offering
interpretations. Having just said that, I must amend it some-
what. The pronouns that shift in the second, fourth, and sixth
stanzas break the spell of re-creation slightly for me. Consider
the last two lines of those stanzas.
II. 'Cause you've touched her perfect body

With your mind.
IV. 'Cause he touched your perfect body
With his mind.
VI. 'Cause she's touched her perfect body
With her mind.
I confess that my several readings left me annoyed with

first
the "you"-"he"-"she," "her"-"your"-"her" changes. They seemed

simply clever and, in the worst sense, puzzling. So much de-
pends on tracing down the transmutations of those pronouns
that my engagement with poem as re-creator was threatened
by a wholly intellectual kind of problem-solving. However, in
later readings, I think I have gone beyond that and am able
to integrate those lines into the meanings I make of the poem
as a whole. In gross terms, these meanings involve ways of
knowing. The first is knowing oneself by knowing the "perfect
body" of another (Stanza II). The next is knowing another
because he knows your own "perfect body." Finally, it is the
paramount knowing that comes of knowing everything because
one knows his own "perfect body."
Obviously the range of meanings that "Suzanne" can evoke
is wide. The optimistic tenor of the meanings I make can be
countered by pessimistic, even fatalistic, meanings. A reader

might be strongly moved by the lines
But he, himself, was broken

Long before the sky would open.
Forsaken, almost human,
He sank beneath your wisdom
Like a stone.
and find that Suzanne, like Christ, is a tragic messenger, that

for all her truth, love, and charisma, the best she can do for
those who are "leaning out for love" hold "the mirror."
After all, the destiny of her followers
—to"And
is
they will lean

that —
way forever" is not full of promise; it may even seem
to some readers that the heroes and children are in a kind
of purgatory, always yearning, forever unfulfilled.
The point, however, is not here to choose among meanings
but to observe that "Suzanne" inspires empathetic re-creation
and that many meanings can be made of it. It is clearly a
work of presentational, rather than discursive, symbolism, and
is poetry as well as song.
The Beatles' "A Day in the Life," written by John Lennon
and Paul McCartney, is another song to which we can respond
as poetry.
I read the news today, oh boy,

About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph.
He blew his mind out in a car
He didn't notice that the lights had changed
A crowd of people stood and stared
They'd seen his face before
Nobody was really sure 10
If he was from the House of Lords.
I saw a film today, oh boy,

The English army had just won the war
A crowd of people turned away
But I just had to look
Having read the book.
I'd love to turn you on.
Woke up, fell out of bed,

Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup, 20
And looking up I noticed I was late.

Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream.
—
I read the news today, oh boy,

Four thousand holes in Blackburn,
Lancashire
And though the holes were rather small
They had to count them all 30
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the

Albert Hall.
I'd love to turn you on.
There is no need to list the criteria again and go through

them one by one with "A Day in the Life." The criteria are met,
including the single most essential one, that of meaning-making
potential. The lyrics of "A Day in the Life" do not tell a story,
but the movement from news events to the personal details
of the third stanza and back again to the newspapers is highly
evocative. The reader must make connections, but there is
plenty in the imagery and tone of the lyric as a whole to enable
him to create meanings from the juxtapositions. The banal
savagery of the world at large is somehow echoed in the
banality of the speaker's Yet the speaker is a dreamer,

life.
not a savage; he has a smoke (marijuana?) that puts him

—
for a time at least outside the brutal kingdom of news events.
For me, the most evocative line is stated only twice in the
lyric, "I'd love to turn you on," and suggests a number of
possible meanings. Is "you" a particular person, the world, or
both? Is "I'd love to turn you on" a reaching out of love, an
invitation to escape, or just an expression of boredom? I regard
it as the one positive, active assertion by the persona. In all
other respects he issimply a receiver of inputs: a reader of

the newspaper, a moviegoer, and a smoker whose dreams are
triggered by the voices of others. But given a drug meaning,
"I'd love to turn you on" may not have positive implications.
In this case, it is an invitation to escape; it means that the only
way out of this mess of suicide, war, and industrial disaster
is to get stoned. Again, we shall not work here to articulate
what a legitimate range of meanings could be. As with

"Suzanne," our purpose is to observe how and why the lyric
can be responded to as poetry.
We have discussed the lyrics of eight rock songs. Our
sample is admittedly small, yet I think it is representative of
the poetic possibilities of rock 'n' roll. What we have learned
from our study of "Almost Grown," "Heartbreak Hotel," "Sally,

Go 'Round the Roses," "Summer in the City," "Horse Lati-
tudes," "A Whiter Shade of Pale," "Suzanne," and "A Day in the
Life" can be applied to the lyric of any song. A fair generaliza-
tion, it seems to me, is that by examining the lyrics of rock
songs individually and with an explicit poetic in mind, we will
find that the majority of lyrics are not poetry but verse. We
will also find, just as we have with "Horse Latitudes,"
"Suzanne," and "A Day in the Life," that a significant number
of rock lyrics are not only poetry, but intriguing and emo-
tionally powerful poetry at that. Among the lyricists not dis-
cussed who have written songs that are also poems, I include
Paul Simon, Donovan Leitch, Willie Dixon, Bob Dylan, Tuli
Kupferberg, Grace Slick, and Phil Ochs. But such lists are
dangerous. The essential process is not categorical inclusion
or exclusion; rather, it is to examine each work with care.
In at least one important way, our discussion of rock
lyrics has served to further refine the poetic. In our earlier
study of poetics and of specific poems we had seen how lan-
guage could be used too discursively to affect the presentational
ends of poetry. But we had not been confronted by the reverse
phenomenon, that of language used so wholly presentationally
that the work (lyric or poem) fails to cohere and becomes
puzzling instead of evocative. "Horse Latitudes," singularly
precise and intense —and yet thoroughly enigmatic until the
reader is in possession of rather specialized historical knowl-
edge —afforded us an example of total presentation. It presents
rather than tells; but what we learned is that some telling is
necessary, particularly if we are to bring to bear on the poem
our knowledge of "grammar, logic, psychology and good sense,"
as Coleridge advises.
I suggest that our finding is cause to reconsider a dimen-
sion of the poetic. Perhaps Susanne Langer's invaluable con-
tribution to needs to be qualified slightly. Langer maintains
it
that poetry more

closely resembles presentational art, like
music or painting, than it does other forms of discourse, be-
cause unlike discourse generally, poetry seeks to evoke rather
than to make assertions. Langer's view is sound generally, and
serves well to redress a balance too often weighted toward the
side of the poem-as-statement or the poem-as-great-idea. But it
is as a position on a scale that we must view Langer's con-
tribution: poetry can no more be wholly presentational than it

can be wholly discursive. It must be both, but its discursive
function must always be supportive of its presentational, never
supersede it.
If we push Langer's contention to its extreme, we can
expect to find an equivalent in poetry to abstract painting. Yet
there is no such equivalent, or, at least, not a tenable one.
"Horse Latitudes" comes close. Like an abstract painting, it
is intense, vivid, emotionally powerful, and self-conscious in
the sense that we are aware of a creative imagination in the

work. We do not ask of the painting, "What is it about?" and
to some degree the question is also inappropriate when asked
of a poem, since we have learned that a poem, strictly speaking,
is not "about" anything that can be absolutely defined. None-
theless, there is a degree —

and I emphasize "degree" to which —
we need to know what a poem is "about." When we learn that
"Horse Latitudes" is "about" conquistadores and horses in a
storm at sea, meanings unfold. But the poem is only "about"
the conquistadores and their horses in the most superficial
—
way it is really "about" much more. It can almost be said
that we need to know what a poem is "about" so we can dis-
card that information and advance to the poem's more
significant reaches. Again we see that response to poetry defies
prescription. We must bring to our poetic well-tempered as-
sumptions, inclinations and theoretical contentions a poem —
cannot be described as being all of anything.
At the outset of this chapter I spoke of a new role for

the reader of poetry. In addition to being the empathetic re-
creator of acknowledged poems, he can be the discoverer of
poems in material not officially designated or immediately
discernible as poetry. The poetic is then used as an instrument
not only to describe and evaluate, but also to discern un-
announced poetry. We have been using the poetic this way in
our study of rock lyrics. No single lyric was distinguished
from the others by being labelled a poem; our task was to
discern which lyrics among several might be poetry, and why.
Discovering unannounced poetry, what is commonly called
"found" poetry, amid the welter of verbal and printed language
to which we are constantly exposed, is a somewhat similar
activity. The reader must bring an articulated and flexible
poetic to bear on an utterance not formerly designated as

poetry in order to see if it can be poetry. He discovers the
poetry in the language; he discovers the poem.
An important difference between using the poetic as an
instrument to discern the poetry of rock lyrics and discovering
found poems is that in the latter instance the reader is more
literally the maker of the poem. The words, lines, and stanzas
of the lyrics were already assembled for us. The maker of the
found poem usually has to select the words he will use from
a larger number that will have nothing to do with the poem;
then he creates sequences of lines and stanzas where none
existed before. The maker of found poems is both reader-
perceiver (discovering the poem in some utterance) and poet-
reader (fashioning its form as a poem).
In terms of creative responsibility, found poems are not
rightfully regarded as totally the poet's own, as are other kinds
of poems. Yet the maker of a found poem is the poet. A com-
mon practice in publishing found poems reflects the ambiguity
inherent in their genesis: the maker's name is printed with
the found poem exactly where the poet's name is found for any
other poem; yet it is also noted, usually in parentheses, that
the poem is a found poem.
Here is a found poem I made from a student's evaluation
of a course I taught on poetry. The student wrote a paragraph
describing the variety of contexts in which poems had been
presented to the class. Her prose read:
At times the poet was known and present. At other times,

the poet was present but anonymous. At still other times,
the poet was unknown and absent.
My found poem is entitled "The Poet."
At times
The poet
Was known
And present.
At other times
The poet
Was present
But anonymous.
At still other times

The poet
Was unknown
And absent.
As can be seen, I haven't done anything to change the words

or sentences of the prose. I have isolated them from their
context (the student's paper), and arranged the words into
very short lines and the sentences into three four-line stanzas.
If this is a poem, the poem was lurking visibly behind the
prose.
My rearrangement of the sentences into lines and stanzas
is designed to heighten the effect of words and structure.
"At times," "At other times," and "At still other times" are
not of themselves stirring lines; yet I hoped that their place-
ment as the first line of each of the stanzas would at once de-
note the sequence of events presented in the poem and evoke
an almost mystical sense of time passing, evolving, coming,
and going. "The poet," the second line of each stanza, is sim-
ilarly designed to isolate and heighten the effect of what was
simply the subject of the prose sentences. The shifts from
"Was known / And present" to "Was present / But anonymous"
to"Was unknown / And absent" speak for themselves.
Is "The Poet" a poem? As its maker, my view is perhaps
biased in its favor. I think it is a poem because it has the
potential to evoke a mildly mysterious and elusive sense of
the poet, as if he were playing a game of hide-and-seek with
the reader. The meaning-making it can inspire includes a prac-

tical description of what a reader might experience when
reading a poem (sometimes feeling he knows the poet well;
at other times, less well; and at still other times, not at all)
and the more ethereal, even mystical, presentation of the poet.
The poetic intent of "The Poet" certainly embraces this latter
meaning. Other meanings could even include sociological and
historical ones —at times poets are conspicuous societal forces;
at other times, they hover on the fringes of society; and at still
other times, they seem hardly a presence in the world of men.

To weave a tapestry of elaborate meanings from such a
slender thread may appear to aggrandize the poem — "The Poet"
is hardly an ambitious work. Yet in order to see the poem in
the prosewhen I read it, I had to be aware of as much meaning-

making potential as possible.
Here are a number of found poems, by Robert L. Peters
and George Hitchcock, made from an old book called Rats and
How to Destroy Them, by Mark Hovell. The creators of the
poems have simply (or not so simply) lifted and rearranged
the prose sentences they found in Hovell's text.
PRELUDE
In stables, cow-houses and
outbuildings
they were found to be
in large numbers
at all seasons.
They invaded the fowl-house

and carried off eggs.
They destroyed young poultry
in early spring.
The hedgerows were full 10
of their holes, and

they had undermined banks
around the ponds.
They gave the gardener no peace,
and dug up peas
and beans as soon as
they had been sown.
They ate their way

into the green-house.
20
Whatever the owner of the house
and those who worked there
may have thought of them
they appeared quite satisfied

with themselves
and their quarters must have been

all they desired
since they made no attempt

to leave them.
RESPONSIBILITIES
People
who live in the country
and have schoolboy sons
should not
leave the rats
for the boys
to kill
during their holidays;
they should
destroy them 10
at once.
People
who keep fowls
for amusement
but do not understand
the principles of
managing them
often throw food down
in the runs
in the evening 20
with the idea

that the early birds
will find in it
a substitute
for the first worm.
Such people succeed

in feeding
quite a large number
of rats.
Never 30
allow a rat
that can be killed
today
to live
till tomorrow.
THE MONGOOSE
The mongoose
is very abundant
and for regular trade

should be
obtainable in London
at one Pound a head.
It will kill
all kinds of small mammals
and birds.
The author very strongly

deprecates
turning a
mongoose loose
in town.
CODA
We shall always
have the rat
with us.
The makers of these found poems, Peters and Hitchcock,

had an assist from the archaic oddities of Hovell's prose. But
these were not enough in themselves to make the prose into
poetry. An immense amount of the poetic possibility depends
on the arrangement of the lines. An assertion as innocuous as
"They ate their way / into the green-house," placed in the
context of "Prelude," quivers with ominous reverberations;
and so banal a prescription as "Never / allow a rat / that can
be killed / today / to live / till tomorrow" becomes a delightful
fillip at the end of "Responsibilities." The proclamation "We
shall always / have the rat / with us" is notable because its
poetic possibilities depend more on its position as the "Coda"

of the series of poems than on anything inherent in itself as a
three-line found poem.
I have seen found poems made from the content descrip-
tions on a package of Dill's pipe cleaners ("strong * pliable *

clean * full-bodied * absorbent"), from an advertisement for
pornography, from a taxidermist's manual, from news bulle-
tins. Currently I am considering making a found poem out of
an advertisement for the Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow automo-
bile. The advertisement announces two sides to the Rolls'
impressiveness:
. —
The Public Life. It's a working day, with very im-

portant people for your Silver Shadow Long-Wheelbase
Sedan to indulge. Impress. Perhaps, even intimidate. Now
the Rolls waits, ready. Ready to put prestige to work. To
do the job it does best . .
The Private Life. Now a day off. A day with the family.
A day to give them self-esteem, to remind them of how
far —
they've come. But more to give them fun, excitement.
Imagine, of all things, the joy of this great-hearted sedan
turned loose from the sober responsibility to impress,
17
impose, uphold . . .
Is this a car or a sultan being spoken about? What versatility!

To indulge, impress, intimidate; to give one's family self-esteem
and remind them of how far they've come if it were not for —
the dangerous ethos underlying all these promises, the ad-
vertisement would be funny. Surely a found poem lies in wait
beneath the glossy prose.
No book on poetry that I know of discusses found poetry.
After a considerable search, I am able to find one reference
to it, in the glossary of Louis Simpson's An Introduction to
Poetry:
Found Poetry. A piece of writing that is read as poetry

though it was not intended to be. Usually the poem is
—
found in a passage of prose it may be from a news item,
advertisement, handbook, travel book, or catalogue
which is then divided into lines of verse. Most found
poems, though not all, are satiric the unexpected atten- —
tion catching the writer off guard. 18
As a glossary entry, this is a fair description, from the outside,

of found poetry. It does not of course describe the process by
which a poet-reader perceives the poem in the prose and makes
the decisions that abstract it and transform it into poetry.
Simpson is probably right that most found poems are satiric,
and this may be a limitation inherent in the process by which
found poems are made (I reassert my contention of Chapter I
that process and product are inseparable).
But why should the scope of found poems be largely
" Rolls-Royce, Inc., 1972.
18
An Introduction to Poetry.
limited to satire? I think our poetic will help us pursue this

question. The poetic requires that a poem's language be excited,
precise, evocative, and presentational; the found poems we
have observed thus far succeed in all areas but one. They lack
the kind of excitement of language of which Coleridge speaks,
an excitement born of passionate feeling. Verse, as we have
seen, also does not embody excitement. Found poetry is clearly
—
not verse it is far too evocative to be so conceived, and is
—
independent of rhyme and meter but it shares with verse a
certain lack of intensity and a concomitant reliance on clever-
ness for its effect.
It might be argued that the satiric, clever nature of found

poetry simply the result of the prose chosen as its source.
is
Perhaps if instead of catalogues, advertisements, and the like,

we made a found poem of the finest prose, that poem would
go beyond satire and be genuinely passionate. This in fact has
been tried. The problem is that prose that is in its own right
born of deep emotion and that inspires deep emotion in others
does not lend itself to rearrangement as poetry. Our attempt
earlier in the book to make poetry of a passage from Robert
Coles' Children of Crisis (see p. 42) illustrates some of the liabili-
ties of transforming serious prose into poetry. But Children
of Crisis is expository rather than literary prose. For an ex-

ample of literary prose made into poetry, we can turn to
A Stone, A Leaf, A Door, 3. volume of poems, selected and
arranged in verse by John S. Barnes, from the prose of
Thomas Wolfe.
Here is a poem made from Look Homeward, Angel.
BEN
My Brother Ben's face, thought Eugene,
Is likea piece of slightly yellow ivory;
His high white head is knotted fiercely
By his old man's scowl;
His mouth is like a knife,
His smile the flicker of light across a blade.
His face is like a blade, and a knife,
And a flicker of light:
It is delicate and fierce,
And scowls beautifully forever, 10
—
And when he fastens his hard white fingers

And his scowling eyes
Upon a thing he wants to fix,
He sniffs
With sharp and private concentration
Through his long pointed nose.
Thus women, looking, feel a well of tenderness
For his pointed, bumpy, always scowling face:
His hair shines like that of a young boy
It is crinkled and crisp as lettuce. 20
Wolfe's description is magnificent; we know how Eugene
sees his brother, how others see him, and we ourselves are
moved to our own vision of this taciturn, beautiful man. The
description carries also the current of feeling that flows from
Eugene to Ben.But a superb description does not make by —
—
a rearrangement of lines a superb poem. The prose is rightly
responsible for a narrative link that in the poem becomes a
shackle. "Thought Eugene" is the most glaring example of
words used simply to tell what's going on, rather than to evoke.
There is the repeated use of "is," an intransitive verb that the
poem does not require, and all those "ands" that serve only to
let us know we have come to the next item. In short, balance
between discursive and presentational use of language is too
heavily weighted on the side of the former for the prose to
succeed as poetry.
One example is not proof that literary prose cannot be
rearranged into good poetry. However, A Stone, A Leaf, A Door
contains over one hundred and fifty such examples; and I have
yet to discover a counterexample, either in that volume or
elsewhere. The purpose here is not to prove that literary prose
can't become poetry, but to discover principles involved in
the poetic process. What we have discovered, I suggest, is that
found poems are most often made from a particular kind of
source (catalogues, advertisements, and the like), because this
source is already of a presentational, rather than discursive,
character. The material from which found poems are made
imposes, in turn, limitations of scope on the found poems.
This is hardly to denigrate the role of found poems in the
process of making and responding to poetry. On the contrary,
because the processes of discovering and of making the poem
are so closely aligned and so relatively accessible (compared

with making a poem wholly, as described in Chapter I), the
found poem, in addition to providing pleasure as poetry, affords
us a fine model for testing and developing the tenets of our
poetic.
Part of the intent of this chapter may now be seen as
broadening our repertoire of poetic possibilities, as well as
using and modifying our poetic. The rock lyrics and found
poems we have considered require that we be open to the
possibility of poetry that we might not otherwise consider.
Further, we are likely to examine closely and even feel respon-
sible for the poetry we find in such places, just as we might
respond to a deer we discover feeding on a lawn in suburbia.
—
Poetry is not just in poetry books this is a simple notion
but one which needs a vigorous defense and clear criteria for
judgment.
6
RECONNAISSANCE
Choose a poem you like and type it on a sheet of paper, omitting

poem to a friend to read, and talk
the author's name. Give the
with him or her about the poem until you feel that you both
understand not only the poem but also each other's way of
responding to it. In your conversation about the poem, try to
encourage reasons on both your parts, rather than allowing
assertions like "It's good" or "I don't like this line," to go
unchallenged.
163
VI
SHARING POETRY
All art is collaboration.
JOHN SYNGE
Collaboration is at the core of poetry; and implicit in the

preceding chapters has been a notion of collaboration between
the poet and what I shall now call his "linguistic culture."
In its simplest form, the term linguistic culture designates
a language common to a national or ethnic community and
includes historical as well as current meanings of words,
expressions, and literary symbols. (I use "meaning" in the
spirit of Ogden and Richards, to refer to both the symbolic and
the emotive uses of language.) As part of this concept of
linguistic culture, I include subcultures of speakers and readers
who use the common language but have also developed, within
their subgroup, a special range of meaning for words, expres-
sions, and literary symbols.
The poet collaborates with a linguistic culture in the first
instance simply by writing in a given language. The language
provides him with immediate communication on the symbolic
level: "dog" is understood to refer to a four-legged, domesti-
cated animal that barks. In its broader applications, the
linguistic culture also affords the poet a fund of historical and
literary symbols from which to draw emotive meaning for —
example, Aesop's fable of the dog in the manger, or the myth
of the dog that guards the gates of hell. Linguistic culture in
the broader sense also provides the poet with contemporary
164
165 SHARING POETRY
idioms rich in meaning: "dog tired," "gone to the dogs," "dog

days." Finally, the usages of a subgroup within the linguistic
culture may offer further meaning: "What a dog I was with
last night!"
We saw in the first chapter how the poet becomes one
with his readers as he creates the poem. We may now recall
that he identifies himself with the imagined reader not only
as an individual, but also as a member of the same linguistic
culture. Thus in "Lemming Song," I made assumptions and
estimations of the linguistic culture that I, as poet, shared
with my imagined and anticipated readers. I could assume they
would know, symbolically, what a lemming is. Emotively, I
assumed a range of meaning within the linguistic culture the —
lemming as a symbol of madness, of suicidal impulse on —
which I could draw. I also estimated that the linguistic culture
of my readers would include knowledge of a specific literary
figure, Walter Pater; and, as I noted in the chapter, that may
have been a faulty assessment of the resources of the linguistic
culture of my readers. It may also have been that I did not
properly tap those resources; that is, my allusion to Pater
should have been more explicit.
"World War III," the poem we examined in Reconnaissance
4, may now be seen as a poem that collaborates with both our
general linguistic culture and with specific subcultures. As part

of our linguistic culture generally, we can be assumed to be
familiar with two world wars. Further, there has been enough
talk of our potential for nuclear holocaust for the title, "World
War III," to have powerful emotive meaning in itself. But the
poet's usage goes beyond the common lexicon of the culture.
He uses a G.I. expression, " 'This is the day the eagle craps' ";
a military and political expression, "the American right wing";
and a term incorporating the vocabulary of modern physics,
"fireball."
Since we are provided with an explanation of the G.I. ex-
pression ("You think of the euphemism for pay"), I assume
the poetic intent of "World War III"not to address an
is
audience composed solely or primarily of soldiers. But no such

background information accompanies the expression "the
American right wing." My own cultural reference for the ex-
pression is political; I can clearly see it as the metaphorical
description of a politically conservative extreme. A friend
SHARING POETRY 166
pointed out that the expression also describes an Air Force

flightformation; his experience in the military provides him
with a broader knowledge of our linguistic culture. Similarly,
to apprehend that "old fireball" means both the sun and
nuclear fission requires a linguistic culture that includes an
awareness of recent developments in physics.
Yet I have said that I don't assume the poetic intent of
this poem is to address an audience of soldiers. Nor do I
assume it is directed at nuclear physicists. I think the poetic
intent is, for the most part, to speak to readers like me—"lay
readers" insofar as we are neither military personnel nor
scientists.
My contention is based on the diction of the poem as a
whole. There is enough in the poem, aside from these specific

phrases, to provide the twentieth-century lay reader with access
to the poem. The vocabulary is not arcane; the situation
presented can be readily visualized by anyone who knows
modern history and is aware of the sinister capability of recent
technological and, perhaps, political trends. In short, there is
enough "overlap" of "cultures" for our collaboration. This is

not to say that a linguistic culture which includes the G.I.'s
lingo and the physicist's slang does not enrich our responses
to the poem.
Inclusion and exclusion by virtue of membership in a
linguistic culture are a matter of degree; in any poem, there
may be words, allusions, or historical references that fall out-
side our own linguistic culture. The question is how much is
tolerable. I earlier criticized "Horse Latitudes" because I felt
that too much specialized historical knowledge was required
of the reader in order for him truly to collaborate with the
poem. On the other hand, I did not raise this same objection
to "On the Late Massacre in Piemont." Both poems make a
presentation based on a specific historical event. Yet I suggest
that in one instance ("Horse Latitudes") the poem is wholly
inaccessible without knowledge of the event, while Milton's
sonnet does not require us to be familiar with seventeenth-
century history. Even without knowing that "stocks and
stones" refers to graven images, or that the "triple tyrant" is
the pope, there is enough in the poem with which I, from my

linguistic culture, can collaborate. As I indicated earlier, I do
—
167 SHARING POETRY
not think the poem really concerns the Piemontese, the pope,
or even the Reformation —
its presentation is that of man's
relationship to God, and of the interweaving of national ambi-

tion with divine sanction. Again, this is not to say that a broader
one that encompasses knowledge of Milton's
linguistic culture,
England, would not enrich collaboration, and hence response.
But the collaboration at the core of the poem derives first from
dimensions of the poetry, not of the history.
"Black People!" by LeRoi Jones, which we looked at in
another context in Chapter IV, assumes, through the entire
poem, collaboration with a distinct subgroup and its linguistic
culture. As a white, I am not part of that linguistic culture
and therefore am excluded from collaboration or, at the —
least, collaboration is exceedingly difficult. This does not mean
I don't understand the vocabulary of the poem, or am ignorant
of its specific references. On the contrary, as someone who grew
up in and about Newark, New Jersey, I have been in the stores
mentioned in the poem (Bamberger's, Klein's, Hahnes'), on the
streets (Broad, Washington), and know something of the po-
litical figure ( Frelinghuysen ) who was powerful in the state.
But as much as I might try empathetically to re-create

the poem, "Up against the wall mother / fucker this is a stick
up!" cannot become "magic words" for me. Nor can I envision
"the fruit of the sun" to be gained by "smashing at jellywhite
faces."I am not saying that the poem advocates political action
with which I disagree. Nor am I saying that Jones intends or

does not intend to include me in his readership. As I have
argued throughout this book, intentionalism and political
motivation or effect play no role in the poetic I advocate. The
—
poem's poetic intent not its author's intentions or politics
directs it subgroup of the linguistic culture.
to a
The poem is boldly addressed to black people. Its intent
could not be clearer from the title alone. Further, the poem's
diction includes a very specialized use of words and expres-
sions: "whitey," "shit," "brothers," "my man," and "tomish
ways." Certainly it is not only blacks who use the word "shit"
or "brothers"; but the way these and other words are used in
the poem expresses its intent —and I gauge that intent to be
one of specific address to black people.
Finding the linguistic culture of "Black People!" virtually
SHARING POETRY 168
alien, I have two choices. Since I cannot collaborate with it,

I can decide that "Black People!" fails as a poem. Such a deci-
sion would be somewhat similar to the one I made about
"Horse Latitudes," although the reasons for my cultural exclu-
sion are different. It is also the kind of decision I have made
when reading certain of Ezra Pound's "Cantos," especially
when they contain long phrases in Italian, Latin, and Greek
("Canto IX" and "Canto XLVII" come most readily to mind).
Alternatively, I can decide that the poem is not addressed to
me, that it is not my place to judge it. In responding to "Black
People!" I choose this latter course, for unlike "Horse Lati-
tudes" or the "Cantos," "Black People!" clearly has the poetic
intent of addressing itself to blacks. I can simply respect that
intent as I perceive it.
Essentially, what we have is this: poetry is collaborative;

one dimension of this collaboration requires that the language
of the poem's "virtual life" make connection with the linguistic
culture of the reader. The language of the poem includes every-
thing that went into making; the linguistic culture of the
its
reader is everything he brings to the poem. It must be added

—
that in response response as a process the reader's own —
linguistic culture can be broadened. It might even be argued
further that a measure of a truly excellent poem is that
response to it enlarges the scope of the reader's linguistic
culture.
Earlier we learned that the dynamic of response is essen-
tially the process of empathetic re-creation, itself a form of
collaboration between the reader and the poem. We may now
assert that a prerequisite for response, for any given instance
of empathetic re-creation, is the presence of a linguistic culture
in the poem with which the reader can collaborate, because
his own relationship to the same linguistic culture meshes, at
least to some degree, with that presented by the poem.
Thus I take Synge's assertion "All art is collaboration"
to mean that art collaborates at once with the past and the
future. Its past lies in the availability of language, symbols,
and traditions; its future lies in the response of its readers,
viewers, and hearers.
But there is which poetry can be
yet another sense in
collaborative. It can be collaborative because people do it
together. This dimension of collaboration is perhaps less grand
169 SHARING POETRY
than the collaboration created by linguistic culture, but it is
just as significant.
As we observed reading and writing poetry can be
earlier,
it can also
as private as a love letter, as secret as a diary, but
be something else. It can be a public, collaborative activity,
and can be enriched by being so. There is no reason why a
group cannot gather to respond to poems together and experi-
ence all the delight and creative energy of a quartet playing
Mozart. And there is no reason why all poems must be written
in solitary confinement; groups of poets can work creatively
together, reviving an old literary tradition of collaborative
poems and partaking of the modern phenomenon of collabora-
tion as it is practiced in music, drama, and, to some extent, the
visual arts.
We accept the comes of spontaneous
idea that exciting jazz
collaboration. Even music can be made this way, as
classical
Lucas Foss' Improvisation Ensemble has demonstrated. Is the
same idea inimical to poetry?
Poetry, as we have seen, is not a "thing." It is a host of
mutually supportive activities: making poems, developing a
viable poetic, and responding to poems. To these, let us add
a fourth activity, the sharing of poetry in all its active dimen-
sions. Further, I suggest that, given the opportunity, people
like to share the making of poems, their expectations of poetry,
and the poems themselves. That is, people like to do these
things if we can break down the usual restraints against doing
them.
Creative-writing teachers commonly use strategies of
collaboration as "loosening-up exercises" for their students.
They will ask their students to make a group poem that builds
Or students will be instructed
as each person contributes a line.
to make poems by using an anagram to provide the first letters
of each line (for example, N-E-S-C-A-F-E); all the poems will
have the same starting point and can be shared as soon as they
are written. Another kind of collaboration occurs when each
person writes a single line on his own; then the group puts all
the lines together tomake a poem.
Are these merely the "tricks" of clever teachers, or do
they have some defensible rationale based on what poetry in
fact is? For many years I considered the collaborative making
— —
of poems group poems as merely the device of a teacher
SHARING POETRY 170
confronted by inhibited or lethargic students; or, at best, it

seemed a kind of parlor game about as significant as charades.
But three observations made by Kenneth Koch, have caused
me to reconsider.
Koch was "teaching" grade school children to write poetry.
He discovered, first of all, that the children loved to make
poems collaboratively. He asked each child to write a line
beginning with "I wish"; then he collected all the lines,
shuffled them, and read them aloud as one poem. Koch de-
scribes the children as "enormously excited by writing the
lines and even more by hearing them read as a poem. They
were talking, waving, blushing, laughing, and bouncing up and
down." 1
Koch also observed that the children preferred writing

poems in class, among their fellows, to working on them alone
at night:
A surprising discovery I made at P.S. 61 was that children

enjoyed writing poems at school more than at home. I had
assumed that like grown-up writers they would prefer to
be comfortable, quiet, and alone when they wrote, but I
was wrong. There was
. . . the fact of their all being in
. . .
the room, writing together. No time for self-consciousness

or self-doubts; there was too much activity: everyone was
writing and talking and jumping around. And it was com-
petitive in a mild and exhilarating way: it was what
everyone was doing and everyone could do it. 2
Finally, we have Koch's comment that collaborative en-

deavor led to later individual authorship of poems by the
children:
These collaborations almost always made the children

want to make up, and usually to write, poems of their
own. Composing a poem together is inspiring: the timid
are given courage by braver colleagues; and ideas too good
to belong to any one child are transformed, elaborated
1
Wishes, Lies and Dreams: Teaching Children to Write Poetry (New York: Random
House, 1970), p. 6.
2
Ibid., pp. 28-29.
171 SHARING POETRY
on, and topped ... a subject is built up, starting with

something rather plain and becoming deeper and more
interesting in its elaboration. 3
The title of Koch's book, Wishes, Lies and Dreams, de-

scribes the "themes" he assigned to his students. They were
to write "wish poems," "lie poems," and "dream poems." Yet
it seems to me that the title, and the notion of themes, is
secondary to what the book isabout the

about. It is really
collaborative making of and the shared response to poems.
The children shouting out their poems for all to hear; the
children piling lines and images one upon the next; the chil-
dren inspiring each other as poets this was the heart of —
Koch's teaching at P.S. 61 in New York City.
Here is a collaboration by an entire fifth grade. Koch
taught the children the sestina form, provided the end words
for the lines of the first stanza, and left the children to their
collective imagination and delight.
HOORAY
My wonderful perplexity
Is so disjoint.
Words like that are not common
But they do have quite a wealth
Of meaning. Hooray! Hooray!
It's really fabulous.
It's a wonderful fabulous

Day! Let's have some perplexity.
It's time we got some hooray!
I think I'll just disjoint i°
Altogether. Look who's here! the wealth

Man! His visits aren't so common.
Today isn't so common
But tomorrow will be fabulous.
We want wealth
But getting wealth is a great perplexity.
I've got a disjoint.
My finger fell—hooray!
3
Ibid., p. 48.
SHARING POETRY 172
It's time for lunch hooray

What do work and lunch have in common? 20
go have something to eat in a disjoint

I'll
Restaurant. The food there was fabulous!

Food is a great perplexity.
Food is great wealth.
Here comes the Wealth

Parade! No one is going to say hooray.
Why that is is a great perplexity.
A parade isn't common
But it's fabulous.
The wealth man's float is going to disjoint! 30
Things like that are disjoint.

How should we distribute the wealth?
Distributing wealth is fabulous.
They're distributing wealth hooray! —
Distributing is so common
We'll distribute it with the perplexity.
The perplexity of the cat is disjoint.

It comes out in common with the wealth
Man. The people will say, "Hooray! it's fabulous!"
And here is a somewhat different collaborative poem, by

two students, Vivien Tuft and Fontessa Moore.
What's inside the moon?

There's hot water inside.
What's the sky made of?
It was made out of white snow.
If you cut the sun open what would you see?
Terrible looking enemies.
When you write you look at your words have you thought
of cutting open a letter to see what's inside?
No. But if a person was crazy the answer would be yes.
What's inside colors?
There's pink stars.
Where is the end of the universe?
In back of the swimming pools.
How old is adventure?
It is 60,000 years old.
Which color is older, black or white?
Black because you can outline me.
173 SHARING POETRY
Must the experience of poetry be different for adults than

it was for the grade school children Koch describes? Instinc-
tively, we are likely to answer that it must. It is difficult to
visualize a group of adults writing down their poems and then
clamoring, actually jumping around, for them to be heard.
It is also hard to imagine adults putting aside their individual
egos long enough to take genuine and deep pleasure in a group
poem. (Most of my adult friends regard with scorn the very
idea that creative work can be collective.) But there is evidence
that contradicts this general impression.
For example, we have Dan Jones' account of his poetic
commentary worth quoting
collaboration with Dylan Thomas, a
at some length:
In poetry collaborationswe always wrote alternate

lines: I had the odd-numbered lines and Dylan the even-
numbered, and we made it a rule that neither of us
should suggest an alteration in the other's work. The
poems, of which I still have about two hundred, are a
different matter from the WBS [Warmly Broadcasting
System, a satire on radio programming] fooling. It is
still play, but it is what I would call serious play. The
poetic style of Walter Bram, as we called ourselves, is

bafflingly inconsistent: it is fragile, furious, laconic, mas-
sive, delicate, incantatory, cool, flinty, violent, Chinese,
Greek, and shocking. One poem may begin "You will be
surprised when I remain obdurate," and the next, "I lay
under the currant bushes and told the beady berries about
Jesus." Some of the poems are very, very beautiful; very.
Especially those that tell of singularly gentle and godlike
actions by the third person plural.
They had come from the place high on the coral hills
Where the light from the white sea fills the soil with
ascending grace.
And the sound of their power makes motion as steep as
the sky,
And the fruits of the great ground lie like leaves from a
vertical flower.
They had come from the place; they had come and had
gone again
SHARING POETRY 174
In the season of delicate rain, in a smooth ascension of

grace.
We had word obsessions: everything at one time was

"little" or "white"; and sometimes an adjective became
irresistibly funny in almost any connection: "innumerable
bananas," "wilful moccasin," "a certain Mrs. Prothero."
These word games and even the most facetious of our
collaborations had a serious experimental purpose, and
there is no doubt that they played an important part in
Dylan's early poetic development. 4
The Jones/Thomas collaborations took place in the 1920s;

but we think them either dated or unique, we have a poem
lest
from the very latest (as of this writing) edition of Poetry
magazine.
WHO HUNGERS FOR A FACE THAT FADES AWAY

Who hungers for a face that fades away?
The glacier slides, the hammers turn to knives.
A man is sketching frozen maps in clay.
The owl who breeds has nothing more to say.

The sleigh destroyed in an iceslide thrives.
Tundra in boots reminds him of decay.
He stabs, and the map bleeds, the map survives.
The fingerprint brands ice, what lines convey!
And the face etches shadow, melts, and dives.
The moonlight sags, sun sags where bruises lay.

Ice the animal the oxhorn drives.
is
Ice plugs the caves that absent winds betray.
But where is the floating city death revives?
PAUL NEMSER
and MARK RUDMAN
4 Constantine Fitz Gibbon, The Life of Dylan Thomas (Boston: Little, Brown, 1965),
p. 54, quoting Dan Jones.
175 SHARING POETRY
Finally, let me offer this group poem, made recently by

some friends of mine. 5
THE BEEHIVE
The south wall buckled under it,
rock, leaf, mud, birdnest,

rocks stood up and clapped
the fortress of mud
next to the cast-off right hip
of a huladancer
lull tilt
North and South America fall off.

In their places sprout
ripe melons.
The point is simply this: adults can and do make collabora-

tive poems; we should think of the endeavor neither as a
gimmick nor as strictly the province of schoolchildren. On the
contrary, we might usefully regard the collaborative making
—
of poems either by co-poets or groups of poets as opening —
up the ways in which poetry can be shared.
Jonathan Baumbach has edited a book entitled Writers
as Teachers /Teachers as Writers, in which ten writers tell
about their teaching. Every essay is different, but Baumbach
announces in his introduction: "What it comes down to and —
on this point all of the contributors to the book seem to agree
— a writing class needs to be a community." 6
In fact, not every contributor does stress the writing class
as community. Wright Morris, for example, emphasizes "the
privacy of [the writer's] calling," and says that, most of all,
"he must rise and sing by himself." 7

Several of those who speak of community as important to
creating and talking about writing are not poets. Baumbach
himself is a novelist who considers "gut reactions" essential
to the sharing of literature among a community of people who
5
Robert McDowell and Mark Jarman were the instigators within a group of nine
people who made this poem.
6
Writers as Teachers/Teachers as Writers (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston,
1970), p. 5.
7
"The Word Between Them," in Baumbach, Writers as Teachers /Teachers as Writ-
ers, p. 201.
SHARING POETRY 176
"write for each other." L. S. Simkes, a novelist and playwright,

urges a highly personal interaction among his writing students.
But it is not wholly coincidental, I think, that among the con-
tributors to Writers as Teachers /Teachers as Writers it is the
poets who most vigorously and eloquently conceive of com-
munity as integral to their endeavor as teachers-sharers of
poetry.
(Let me note that in the rest of this chapter, I will use
the terms "teacher" and "class" only as a convenience. They
are not meant to limit the discussion to the classroom; it is
an unfortunate fact that currently most talking about poetry,
and writing about poetry, exist within the context of class-
rooms. I would as soon have "teacher" read "instigator" or
"convener," and "class" read "group of persons talking about
poetry.")
Here is George P. Elliott's comment on community:
But sometimes, late in the semester, I would look forward
to going into the same classroom with pleasure, charged

up by the students' energy, improvement, their
their
sprouts of imagination. I much about this
did not talk
experience to other teachers, not wanting to seem boast-
ful, fearing it might be illusory or a symptom of some
sentimentality in myself. A Chaucer man helped me define

it— the Chaucer men I have known tended to be wiser
than most. You can tell a good class, he said, by the way
it pulls together late in the term into a kind of com-
munity. He did not know how it came about or what he

contributed to bringing it about but he felt, as I did
. . .
and do, that only such a class can be called successful.

This is an occasional community yet not only is the
. . .
experience of such a fragile community a good in itself

but also, as I believe, it heightens the experience of
literature, which is among other things a form of com-
munion. 8
Elliott, like Koch, is sharing poetry with others. Elliott's

students are in college rather than grade school, but for them
too there is the crackle of excitement, of creative energy; and
8 "Teaching Writing;' in Baumbach, Writers as Teachers /Teachers as Writers, p. 47.
177 SHARING POETRY
"communion" is as apt in describing the experience at P.S. 61

as it is for Elliott's students.
The poet Denise Levertov defines community as precisely
the "atmosphere of sharing" that characterizes talking about
poetry. Furthermore, as we hear her tell about one of the ways
she shares poetry, we understand that it is the poetry itself
that creates the community, no less than the participants of
the group:
I first tried out Muriel Rukeyser's wonderful idea of
having a whole class read a poem one after another,

—
without previous discussion something which perhaps
sounds boring but in fact turns out to be a sort of
alchemical process, a process of filtering, refining, and
intensification of understanding that is far more effective
and moving than any mere analytical method can be.
Usually the first one or two readers stumble and hesitate;
the next two read with some confidence and facility; then
a period of boredom and irritation may set in probably —
most participants feeling they can't bear to hear those
—
same words one more time; and then subtly that point —
is passed, and one finds oneself at a different level of
response, finds oneself emerging into an intimate, sensu-

ous comprehension of the poem that activates both
intellect and imagination. I have never known it to fail. 9
Earlier we spoke of poetry as performance; here, in Levertov's

account, we have not only performance, but ensemble per-
formance at that. As Kenneth Burke described response as a
heaping up of attitudes, Levertov describes a heaping of
attitudes through performance. Although there is no explicit
dialogue among the respondents, each response (here the
response is the performance) builds on those that have
preceded it. Together, cumulatively, and by the subtle power
the group builds, a "different level of response" is achieved.
Two observations: (1) Shared response of the sort Lever-
tov recounts is in many ways the collective manifestation of
the individual response we have explored throughout this book.
9 "The Untaught Teacher," in Baumbach, Writers as Teachers /Teachers as Writers,

p. 164.
SHARING POETRY 178
Individual response ideally is built of the dynamic of attitudes

evoked and played off each other; individual response is per-
— —
formance as the reader himself silently or orally brings the
poem to life; individual response is an empathetic re-creation
of the poem as the reader struggles to draw nearer his most
viable conception of the poem's intent. All these dimensions
of response can be replicated when poetry is shared; it may
even be that they are fostered by group interaction. Certainly
the kind of group involvement described by Koch, Elliott, and
Levertov indicates that sharing poetry is in no way inimical to
dimensions of response we most value. (2) Shared response,
and the creation of a vital "occasional" community of respon-
dents, derives as much from what poetry is as from strategies
of group interaction. Another way of putting this is that the
readers sharing poetry are not in an encounter group; they
have not come together with the goal of interaction as their
—
chief concern the interaction is a function of the way we have
discovered that poetry means. Since poetry evokes intensely
personal and creative response, it follows that interaction
among sharers of poetry will possess these characteristics.
Significantly, all these accounts — Koch's and each of the
ten contributors to Writers as Teachers /Teachers as Writers
—integrate making and responding. There no such thing as a
is
creative-writing class in which participants solely write. As we

observed in Chapter I, the maker of the poem is also its reader,
its very first reader. Role duality is integral to making poems,
as it is, in a modified form, integral to responding to poems

(the reader as re-creator). Within a group sharing poetry, all
members can be both makers and readers; they write for each
other, and, after the maker himself, the group is likely to be
the first audience of a new work. This role duality of the
sharers is part of the reason why the group talking about
poetry must be a community. The sharing of poetry is total;
the sharers come to be known to each other not only as readers
but as makers.
What of the poetic? Do sharers of poetry develop a shared
set of assumptions, expectations, and values concerning poetry?
Does sharing poems impede or facilitate the individual in
developing his own poetic?
First it must be said that sharing poetry hardly guarantees
the development of an explicit, defensible poetic. A person can
179 SHARING POETRY
read innumerable poems over many years and never articulate

—
a poetic among sharers of poetry it may be less easy to do
this, but it is possible. Levertov speaks of "discussions which
failed, usually, to come to grips with anything, but slid off into
purely subjective 'likes' and 'dislikes' because we had not
established any evaluative standards." 10 One explanation of
these failures, she suggests, is that the individual sharers did
not know each other well enough really to get down to busi-
ness, to become genuinely involved in the poems. But a similar
cause can have a different effect, particularly among persons
who have a formal background in English literature. Rather
than failing "to come to grips with anything," the sharers of
poetry can all too easily fail "to come to grips with" the poem
at hand, substituting for its discussion a series of critical
pronouncements like "The use of metaphor is striking," "This
must be classified as a surrealist poem," or "I'd say he was
influenced by Berryman." The discussants are echoing, in all
likelihood, their previous training in literature.
We know that it is tempting to describe a poem's "topogra-
phy" instead of plumbing its depths. Why does the poet use
metaphor? What does it mean to say a poem is surrealistic?
— —
How can we ascertain from the poem what influenced or did
not influence a poet as he made the poem? These are more
basic and important questions.
Thus there are two ways, not unrelated, in which sharers
of poems may fail actually to share a poem with each other.
They may, at one end of the spectrum, indulge in purely
—
subjective opinion a voicing of "likes" and "dislikes." Or, with
a kind of objectivity, the sharers may exchange critical
pronouncements that say something about their knowledge of
the history of English literature or of prosody. In both cases
the sharers have not "come to grips with" fundamentals, what
they actually believe poetry is or should be.
Attempts to share poetry without sharing poetics result

in the kind of futility we saw in Chapter V, in Kermode and
Spender's discussion of Bob Dylan. Each man shot a quiver
full of critical arrows, but in all directions. There was no
agreed on target.
I'm not sure whether kids like those with whom Koch
worked or adults have an easier time integrating poetics into
10
Ibid., p. 158.
SHARING POETRY 180
the sharing of poetry. The kids are less likely to have pre-
conceptions and prejudices, other than perhaps that poetry is
"hard." And they are also probably more willing to start from
—
scratch, with the acceptance until they develop principles
—
which tell them otherwise that anything can be poetry. But
we ought not to romanticize the virtues of naivete; there is
something to be said for the range of exposure adults have had
to poetry, and to life. The prior experience of adults with poetry
enables them to make comparative judgments. Their life ex-
periences provide them with a broader linguistic culture; for
example, adults are more likely than children to be aware of
the G.I. lingo used so evocatively in "World War III." And
while I consider most of what goes on in formal English
courses to work against an understanding of poetics, often
some standard, some notion of poetic principles, emerges be-
tween the lines of literary criticism. The adult will have the
beginnings of a poetic, unlike his younger counterpart; it is a
matter of enlarging the poetic, and making it explicit and
defensible.
Poetics, as much as any dimension of poetry, benefit by
being made public and collaborative. In fact, poetic assump-
tions and standards are so integral both to making poems and
to responding to poems that an explicit discussion of them is
essential to sharing poems. A "private" poetic is perhaps a
contradiction in terms. As soon as someone makes a poem,
that poem is a public declaration of at least a part of his poetic.
Similarly, as soon as someone says virtually anything about a
poem (as distinguished from commentary about its author or
history), he is expressing a poetic. The problem then is not so
much that poetics are not or cannot be part of sharing, but
that they need to be made an overt aspect of it rather than
continually lurking behind the discussion or being forced into
the open only in extremis ("Well, then, what do you think
poetry is?"
The dialogue of sharing fosters the development of a
poetic. In the making of poems, the community can provide
excitement, a sense of play, mild competition, and collaborative
forays into the imagination. In responding to poems, the com-
munity affords a broader interplay of attitudes, associations,
and meaning-making possibilities. In developing a poetic, the
community provides questions and challenges, and constitutes
181 SHARING POETRY
a marketplace in which an idea or assumption must be ex-

plained, revised, defended, and, if possible, propagated. Just as
the maker of poems needs the reader, so the reader needs other
—
readers not only to collaborate in the making of meanings
but also to challenge the assumptions on which meanings and
judgments are based.
Does be one poetic on which all the
this require that there
sharers of poetry must agree? The only fair way to answer this
question is to equivocate: yes and no. There need to be agreed
on ground rules; but, on the other hand, there also can be
modifications once the rules themselves are made explicit. An
analogy that comes to mind is that of squash, a game that has
both an English and an American version. The two versions
employ a slightly different ball, different court dimensions, and
a different scoring system. Despite these variations, British
squash players (and Indians and Pakistanis) can play the
American game, and Americans can play the British version.
In fact, the best players of American squash are usually Indians
or Pakistanis who learned the British game first. There are
essentials that are transferable.
Thus in using poetics. Differing concepts of precision, I
suggest, can coexist among sharers of poetry, so long as some
concept of precision in poetry is expressly valued by all the
sharers. However, if two people attempt to share poetry and
one of them considers precision important while the other
holds the opposite value, there is obviously little sharing
possible in the sense I use sharing. Then what we have is not
two versions of squash, but a badminton player and a squash
player trying to make a game. We can usefully recall the
discussion of poetics between Coleridge and Wordsworth that
we examined Chapter II. There were keen differences be-
in
tween the two poetics; but Coleridge and Wordsworth shared
a basic conception of excitement or passion in poetry with
which they sought to replace the eighteenth century's emphasis
on ornate language and clever expression.
The point of sharing a poetic is clearly not to exact una-
nimity of opinion among readers. Rather it is to assure that
the readers be forced to consider what they value in poetry
and why. Then, when these have been made explicit, a number
of sharers can work with similar values or a respect for those
who differ. In either case the end in mind is hardly that of
SHARING POETRY 182
getting everyone to agree —

we have seen that it is the differ-
ences in values and attitudes about poetry as much as con-
sensus that heightens the dynamic of sharing it.
At the outset of this book, I described one of its intended

functions as that of "eliminating the middleman," the textbook
or teacher who more often than not comes between the reader
and poetry by requiring a response to the particular view of
the teacher or textbook rather than to poetry. While I still
perceive this as an important and necessary function, in writing

this last chapter my concept of "the middleman" has broad-
ened. not just the teacher, or the literary critic, or the
It is
Introduction to Poetry textbook that discourages a spontaneous
—
and joyous sharing of poetry it is that poetry, like so much
of our culture and experience, has become institutionalized,
the province of special credential-giving organizations. The
obvious institution to name in this context is of course the
school; but the school is the product, I think, rather than
the originator, of a frame of mind that regards endeavors as
legitimate only if they are connected with or sponsored by
some institution. Hence we assume — all too readily if we—that
want to study poetry, we should take "a course"; we want to
if
write poetry, we should enroll in "a workshop"; if we want

to listen to poetry, we should attend a reading by a prominent
poet.
The malaise affects virtually all aspects of our lives; and
spokesmen like Ivan Illich and Paul Goodman have expounded
at length on possible remedies for it at the societal level. 11
But with poetry as such, it seems to me there is hope in making
actual the analogy I posited at the beginning of this chapter
between poetry and music. Of all the arts, music, I think, has
resisted becoming the province of experts and students, and
remains open to the kind of sharing about which we've been
talking. No matter how proficient the Budapest and the
Guarneri string quartets, the four players who meet every
Sunday night to make their own music experience joyous and
creative sharing. No matter how many Beatle and Rolling Stone
records have been sold, virtually every city and town has its
11
Ivan Illich, Deschooling Society (New York: Harper & Row, 1970); Paul Goodman,
Growing Up Absurd (New York: Random House, 1960).
183 SHARING POETRY
own rock groups. No matter how brilliant and famous Miles

Davis amateur jazz combos blow their horns enthusiastically.
is,
From the front-porch bluegrass strummers to the local cham-

ber musicians, music has retained an openness, an accessibility
to the general populace, that I think is virtually unequaled
in other art forms.
At the simplest level, this means that almost anyone feels
he can pick up a harmonica and try a few chords, or that any-
one with a bongo can thump away while a friend experiments
with a recorder. Would that this were so with poetry, that each
of us felt inclined to try out an image or a quatrain, to join
someone in making an impromptu poem, to gather friends
together to perform poems for each other. I am inclined to
speculate that there is an inverse ratio between subjects taught
in school and avocations pursued thereafter: English, with its
unit on poetry, is generally required in schools and colleges;
whereas few courses are available, much less required, in
music-making and music appreciation. But there is another
—
factor of which we should take account music is almost al-
ways a collaborative venture; unaccompanied solo per-
formances are the exception rather than the rule. Not only
might music provide us with a model of sharing within art
forms, but it suggests a strong link between the collaborative
and performance aspects of an art and the accessibility of that
art apart from institutional aegis.
The impulse behind this book may now be seen as basically

that of exploring our own possibilities as much as those of
poetry itself. We can be makers of poems, sensitive and imagi-
native readers of poems, discoverers of poems, and collabora-
tors who
share a variety of endeavors, from creating poems to
developing poetic theories. The impulse is integrative; none
of these roles is exclusive of the others.
The book does not presume to have discussed all the
possibilities that inhere in poetry or in ourselves as we conduct
our own reconnaissance into poems and poetics. But if the
book succeeds, it will have raised new questions and possibili-
ties thatthe reader will pursue well beyond these pages.

At the end of "Troilus and Criseyde," Chaucer bids farewell
to his story with a charming envoy. While this work, unlike
SHARING POETRY 184
Chaucer's "litel bok," aspires neither to "tragedye" nor

"comedye," our subject has been "alle poesye":
Go, litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye,

Ther God thi makere yet, er that he dye,
So sende myght to make in som comedye!
But litel book, no makyng thow n'envie,
But subgit be to alle poesye;
And kis the steppes, where as thow seet pace
Virgile, Ovide, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.
MORE POEMS
—— — — —
187 MORE POEMS
Stephen Spender
MY PARENTS KEPT ME FROM CHILDREN
WHO WERE ROUGH
My parents kept me from children who were rough
Who threw words like stones and who wore torn clothes.
Their thighs showed through rags. They ran in the street
And climbed cliffs and stripped by the country streams.
I feared more than tigers their muscles like iron
Their jerking hands and their knees tight on my arms.

I feared the salt coarse pointing of those boys
Who copied my lisp behind me on the road.
They were lithe, they sprang out behind hedges
Like dogs to bark at my world. They threw mud
While I looked the other way, pretending to smile.
I longed to forgive them, but they never smiled.
Emily Dickinson
THE BAT IS DUN
The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings-
Like fallow Article
And not a song pervade his Lips
Or none perceptible.
His small Umbrella quaintly halved

Describing in the Air
An Arc alike inscrutable
Elate Philosopher.
Deputed from what Firmament

Of what Astute Abode
Empowered with what Malignity
Auspiciously withheld
To his adroit Creator

Ascribe no less the praise
Beneficent, believe me,
His Eccentricities
MORE POEMS 188
Paul Laurence Dunbar

WE WEAR THE MASK
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
Ithides our cheeks and shades our eyes,
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be overwise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but O great Christ, our cries
To Thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh, the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask.
William Butler Yeats

LEDA AND THE SWAN
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder inthe loins engenders there

The broken burning roof and tower
wall, the
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
189 MORE POEMS
T. S. Eliot
THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ... 10
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
— —— — .
MORE POEMS 190
In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair 40
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all: —
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?
And have known the eyes already, known them
I all
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways 60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
— —
191 MORE POEMS
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep tired ... or it malingers,
. . .
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness
flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,

10°
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a
screen:
Would have been worth while
it
If one, settlinga pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
—
MORE POEMS 192
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 ... 12 °
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shallwear 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.
have seen them riding seaward on the waves

I
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 13 °
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
William Shakespeare
SONNET 73
That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
193 MORE POEMS
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
John Milton
ON HIS BLINDNESS
When Iconsider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly:thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
Theodore Roethke
MY PAPA'S WALTZ
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
MORE POEMS 194
We romped until the pans

Slidfrom the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
Robert Creeley
I KNOW A MAN
As sd to my
I
friend,because I am
always talking, —John, I
sd,which was not his

name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what
can we do against
it, or we &
else, shall
why not, buy a goddamn big car,
drive, he sd, for
Christ's sake, look
out where yr going.
195 MORE POEMS
Matthew Arnold
DOVER BEACH
The sea is calm tonight,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
—
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 10
At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mindthe turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20
The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems 30
To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
MORE POEMS 196
Albert Goldbarth
BODY MECHANICS
The hand: spread against the cloudless night, stars disappear-
ing and reappearing among the fingers' quadrants; this is
called the astrolabe, you can take it from your pocket and
unfold it at arm's length; the suns collect in your palm,
perhaps it's the gravity of your five pink half-moons; you
wonder, are they rising? or setting? and sight the stars to
chart direction, to see where you're going, eventually; where
every body's going.
The eye:is pure acceptance; as if at the rim of the Disk Of

Light, sun has been collected here, 93,000,000 miles away;
and immersed, and broken inside the head with an infinite
gentleness nothing else inside the head will ever break with;
this is called the prism, you can open its lid and nothing
lies; everything is its color; the joy of a summer afternoon's
spectrum is known to you; we only forget the closing of eyes,
and illuminations preceding sleep; the subtle lustre of ultra-
violet, fading from an eyelash.
The body: in all of its organs, yours; temporal, opaque, de-

lightful; thatis, full of delight; and delight, defined as light-
influenced; and influence in its original usage, that flow of

ethereal powers between celestial bodies affecting ours; as
in the park, we are deftly handling love beneath this June's
entiremoon, and we are hand in hand; as in the park, under
August sun strokes, cops eyeing protestors, two separate
we are doing, we are
visions, faced in a blind spot, eye to eye;
here to do; the body, and the body in activity is casting
shadows, each body to its own extent; this is called the
gnomon; it is this long, there is this much time.
Andrew Marvell
TO HIS COY MISTRESS
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
197 MORE POEMS
To walk, and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews. 10
My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate. 20
But at my back I always hear

Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust: 30
The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power. 40
Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.
MORE POEMS 198
cummings
e. e.
BUFFALO BILL'S DEFUNCT

Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
William Blake
LONDON
Iwander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
— ) —
199 MORE POEMS
Robert Lowell
WAKING IN THE BLUE
The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore,
rouses from the mare's-nest of his drowsy head
propped on The Meaning of Meaning.
He catwalks down our corridor.
Azure day
makes my agonized blue window bleaker.
Crows maunder on the petrified fairway.
Absence! My heart grows tense
as though a harpoon were sparring for the kill.
(This is the house for the "mentally ill.") 10
What use is my sense of humor?

I grin at Stanley, now sunk in his sixties,
once a Harvard ail-American fullback,
(if such were possible!)
still hoarding the build of a boy in his twenties,
as he soaks, a ramrod
with the muscle of a seal
in his long tub,
vaguely urinous from the Victorian plumbing.
A kingly granite profile in a crimson golf-cap, 20
worn all day, all night,

he thinks only of his figure,
of slimming on sherbet and ginger ale
more cut off from words than a seal.
This is the way day breaks in Bowditch Hall at McLean's:
the hooded night lights bring out "Bobbie,"
Porcellian '29,
a replica of Louis XVI
without the wig
redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale, 30
as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit

and horses at chairs.
These victorious figures of bravado ossified young.

In between the limits of day,
hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts
and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle
of the Roman Catholic attendants.
( There are no Mayflower
screwballs in the Catholic Church.
MORE POEMS 200
After a hearty New

England breakfast, 40
I weigh two hundred pounds
this morning. Cock of the walk,

I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor's jersey
before the metal shaving mirrors,

and see the shaky future grow familiar
in the pinched, indigenous faces
of these thoroughbred mental cases,
twice my age and half my weight.
We are all old-timers,
each of us holds a locked razor. 50
Robert Burns
TO A LOUSE,
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH
Ha! where ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
Icanna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gawze and lace;
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastet wonner,

Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
10
Sae Lady!
fine a
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
201 MORE POEMS
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,

Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight, 20
Na faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,

Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towrin height
O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an' gray as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum! 30
I wad na been surpriz'd to spy

You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some
bit duddie boy,
On's wylecoat;
But Miss's fine Lunardi, fye!
How daur ye do't?
O Jenny dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin! 40
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!
O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n Devotion!
MORE POEMS 202
Ezra Pound
A VIRGINAL
(1909)
No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.

I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness,
For my surrounding air has a new lightness;

Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly
And left me cloaked as with a gauze of ether;
As with sweet leaves; as with a subtle clearness.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness
To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her.
No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavor,
Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers.
Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches,
As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches,
Hath of the trees a likeness of the savor:
As white their bark, so white this lady's hours.
Margaret Atwood
GAME AFTER SUPPER
This is before electricity,
it is when there were porches.
On the sagging porch an old man

is rocking. The porch is wooden,
the house is wooden and grey;

in the living room which smells of
smoke and mildew, soon
the woman will light the kerosene lamp.
There is a barn but I am not in the barn;

there is an orchard too, gone bad, 10
its apples like soft cork

but I am not there either.
203 MORE POEMS
I am hiding in the long grass

with my two dead cousins,
the membrane grown already
across their throats.
We hear crickets and our own hearts

close to our ears;
though we giggle, we are afraid.
From the shadows around 20
the corner of the house

a tall man is coming to find us:
He will be an uncle,
ifwe are lucky.
Anonymous
LULLY, LULLEY
Lully, lulley, lully, lulley,

The faucon hath borne my make away.
He bare hym up, he bare hym down,
He bare hym into an orchard browne.
In that orchard there was an halle,

That was hanged with purpill and pall.
And in that hall there was a bede,
It was hanged with gold so rede.
And in that bed there lythe a knyght,
His woundis bledyng day and nyght.
By that bede side kneleth a may,

And she wepeth both nyght and day.
And by that bede side there stondith a ston,
Corpus Christi wretyn there on.
——
MORE POEMS 204
WilfredOwen
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
—
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, 10
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 20
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
—
205 MORE POEMS
William Shakespeare
ULYSSES ON THE VIRTUES OF ORDER
Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down,
And the great Hector's sword had lacked a master,
But for these instances.
The specialty of rule hath been neglected;
And look, how many Grecian tents do stand
Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. 80
When that the general is not like the hive

To whom the foragers shall all repair,
What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded,
Th' unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask.
The heavens themselves, the planets, and this center
Observe degree, priority, and place,
Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,
Office, and custom, in all line of order.
And therefore is the glorious planet Sol
In noble eminence enthroned and sphered 90
Amidst the other; whose med'cinable eye

Corrects the influence of evil planets,
And posts, like the commandment of a king,
Sans check, to good and bad. But when the planets
In evil mixture to disorder wander,
What plagues, and what portents, what mutiny,
What raging of the sea, shaking of earth,
Commotion in the winds, frights, changes, horrors,
Divert and crack, rend and deracinate
The unity and married calm of states 10 °
Quite from their fixture? O, when degree is shaked,

Which is the ladder of all high designs,
The enterprise is sick. How could communities,
Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities,
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,
The primogenity and due of birth,
Prerogative of age, crowns, scepters, laurels,
But by degree, stand in authentic place?
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And hark what discord follows. Each thing meets 110
In mere oppugnancy. The bounded waters

Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores
And make a sop of all this solid globe;
Strength should be lord of imbecility,
And the rude son should strike his father dead;
Force should be right, or rather right and wrong
—
MORE POEMS 206
Between whose endless jar justice resides

Should lose their names, and so should justice too.
Then everything include itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite, 12 °
And appetite, an universal wolf,

So doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey
And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,
This chaos, when degree is suffocate,
Follows the choking.
And this neglection of degree it is
That by a pace goes backward with a purpose
It hath to climb. The general's disdained
By him one step below, he by the next, 130
That next by him beneath; so every step,

Exampled by the first pace that is sick
Of his superior, grows to an envious fever
Of pale and bloodless emulation;
And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,
Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length,
Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.
From Troilus and Cressida, Act I, Scene 3
Osage Indian Song

THE RISING OF THE BUFFALO MEN
I rise, I rise,
I, whose tread makes the earth to rumble.
I rise, I rise,
I, in whose thighs there is strength.
I rise, I rise,
I, who whips his back with his tail when in rage.
I rise, I rise,
I, in whose humped shoulder there is power.
I rise, I rise,
I, who shakes his mane when angered.
I rise, I rise,
I, whose horns are sharp and curved.

Translated by Francis Laflesche
207 MORE POEMS
William Blake
NEVER SEEK TO TELL THY LOVE
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,

I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she doth depart.
Soon as she was gone from me,

A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.
Robert Sward
UNCLE DOG: THE POET AT 9
I did not want to be old Mr.
Garbage man, but uncle dog

Who rode sitting beside him.
Uncle dog had always looked

To me to be truck-strong
Wise-eyed, a cur-like Ford
Of a dog. I did not want

To be Mr. Garbage man because
All he had was cans to do.
Uncle dog sat there me-beside-him 10
Emptying nothing. Barely even

Looking from garbage side to side:
Like rich people in the backseats

Of chauffeur-cars, only shaggy
In an unwagging tall-scrawny way.
—
MORE POEMS 208
Uncle dog belonged any just where

He sat, but old Mr. Garbage man
Had to stop at everysingle can.
Ithought. I did not want to be Mr.

Everybody calls them that first. 20
A dog is said, Dog! Or by name.

I would rather be called Rover
Than Mr. And sit like a tough

Smart mongrel beside a garbage man.
Uncle dog always went to places
Unconcerned, without no hurry.
Independent like some leashless
Toot. Honorable among Scavenger

Can-picking dogs. And with a bitch
At every other can. And meat: 30
His for the barking. Oh, I wanted

To be uncle dog — sharp, high fox-
Eared, cur-Ford truck-faced
With his pick of the bones.

A doing, truckman's dog
And not a simple child-dog
Nor friend to man, but an uncle
Traveling, and to himself
And a bitch at every second can.
Paul Blackburn
THE PURSE-SEINE
Fierce luster of sun on sea, the gulls
swinging by,
by wind
gulls flung
aloft, hung clear and still before the
pivot
turn
glide out
riding the wind as tho it were
the conditions of civilisation
.
209 MORE POEMS
But they are hungry too, 10
and what they do that looks so beautiful, is

hunt.
The side of your face so soft, down, their cried falls, bitter
broken-wing graces crying freedom, crying carrion, and
we cannot look one another in the eye,
that frightens, easier to face
the carapace of monster crabs along the beach. The empty
shell of death was always easier to gaze upon
than to look into the eyes of the beautiful killer. Never
look a gull in the eye 20
Fit the 300-pound torn over the pursing lines, start it sliding
down the rope to close the open circle, bottom of the net,
weight
thudding down thru the sea
brass rings hung from the lead line come closer together, the
torn pushing the rings ahead of it, the purse line drawing thru
them, taking up the slack, the school sounding the fish streak-
ing
by toward that narrowing circle
and out . .
Waiting behind the skiff, birds sit on the sea, staring off, patient
what we throw them. We
for 30
merely fight it, surf, and that other day. No

bed ever was until this, your face half-smiling down your
swell of half-
sleep, eyes closed so tightly they willadmit
nothing but fear and stars. How can we
call all this our own? and shall we dare? admit the moon? full
bars of song from night birds, doors of the mind agape and
swelling?
Dreamagain
that orange slope of sand, we belting down it hand upon hand,
the birds
cry overhead
the sea 40
lies in its own black anonymity and we here on bed

this
enact the tides, the swells, your hips rising toward me,
waves break over the shoals, the
sea bird hits the mast in the dark and falls
with a cry to the deck and flutters off. Panic spreads, the
night is long, no
one sleeps, the net
.
MORE POEMS 210
is tight
we are caught or not, the torn sliding down ponderous
shall we make it? 50
The purse closes.
The beach is a playground, unsatisfactory, but we

pretending still it's play swim out too far, and reaching
back, the arms strain inward
Waters here are brown with sand, the land too close,
too close, we drown
in sight of
I love you and you love me . .
John Donne
THE SUN RISING
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. 10
Thy beams, so reverend, and strong

Why shouldst thou think?
Icould eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both the Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
20
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.
211 MORE POEMS
She is all states, and all princes, I,

Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour's mimic; all wealth alchemy.
Thou sun art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. 30
T. S. Eliot
JOURNEY OF THE MAGI
"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter."
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet. 10
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly. 20
MORE POEMS 212
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation,
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky.
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon 30
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, 40
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
Richard Eberhart
THE GROUNDHOG
In June, amid the golden fields,
I saw a groundhog lying dead.
Dead lay he; my senses shook,

And mind outshot our naked frailty.
There lowly in the vigorous summer
His form began its senseless change,
And made my senses waver dim
Seeing nature ferocious in him.
Inspecting close his maggots' might
And seething cauldron of his being, 10
Half with loathing, half with a strange love,

213 MORE POEMS
I poked him with an angry stick.
The fever rose, became a flame

And Vigour circumscribed the skies,
Immense energy in the sun,
And through my frame a sunless trembling.
My stick had done nor good nor harm.
Then stood I silent in the day
Watching the object, as before;
And kept my reverence for knowledge 20
Trying for control, to be still,

To quell the passion of the blood;
UntilI had bent down on my knees
Praying for joy in the sight of decay.
And so I left; and I returned
In Autumn strict of eye, to see
The sap gone out of the groundhog,
But the bony sodden hulk remained.
But the year had lost its meaning,
And in intellectual chains 30
I both love and loathing,

lost
Mured up in the wall of wisdom.
Another summer took the fields again
Massive and burning, full of life,
But when I chanced upon the spot
There was only a little hair left,
And bones bleaching in the sunlight
Beautiful as architecture;
I watched them like a geometer,
And cut a walking stick from a birch. 40
It has been three years, now.

There is no sign of the groundhog.
I stood there in the whirling summer,
My hand capped a withered heart,
And thought of China and of Greece,
Of Alexander in his tent;
Of Montaigne in his tower,
Of Saint Theresa in her wild lament.
MORE POEMS 214
William Wordsworth
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For everything, we are out of tune;
this, for
It moves us not. —
Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
William Shakespeare
SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
215 MORE POEMS
Sir Philip Sidney

LEAVE ME, O LOVE
Leave me, O love which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust,
Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see;
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
William Shakespeare
SONNET 54
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

By ornament which truth doth give!
that sweet
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses.
But for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so.
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.
MORE POEMS 216
Adrian Keith Smith

RAIN
The rain screws up its face
and falls to bits.
Then it makes itself again.
Only the rain can make itself again.
Robert Frost
THE MOST OF IT
He thought he kept the universe alone;

For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed 10
In the cliff's talus on the other side,

And then in the far-distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
—
And forced the underbrush and that was all. 20
217 MORE POEMS
Maxine Kumin
THE PAWNBROKER
The symbol inside this poem is my father's feet
which, after fifty years of standing behind
the counter waiting on trade,
were tender and smooth and lay on the ironed sheet,
a study of white on white, like a dandy's shirt.
A little too precious; custom-made.
At the end of a day and all day Sunday they hurt.
Lying down, they were on his mind.
The sight of his children barefoot gave him a pain
—part anger, part wonder—as sharp as gravel 10
inside his lisle socks.

Polacks! he said, but meant it to mean
hod carriers, greenhorns, peasants; not ghetto Poles
once removed. Where are your shoes? In hock?
I grew up under the sign of those three gold balls
turning clockwise on their swivel.
Every good thing in my life was secondhand.

It smelled of having been owned before me by
a redcap porter whose ticket
ran out. I saw his time slip down like sand 20
in the glass that measured our breakfast eggs. At night

he overtook me in the thicket
and held me down and beat my black heart white
to make the pawnbroker's daughter pay.
On Saturday nights the lights stayed lit until ten.

There were cops outside on regular duty to let
the customers in and out.
I have said that my father's feet were graceful and clean.
They hurt when he turned the lock
on the cooks and chauffeurs and unlucky racetrack touts 30
and carwash attendants and laundresses and stock-

room boys and doormen in epaulets;
they hurt when he did up accounts in his head
at the bathroom sink
of the watches, cameras, typewriters, suitcases, guitars,
cheap diamond rings and thoroughbred
family silver, and matched them against the list
from Headquarters,
of hot goods
meanwhile nailbrushing his knuckles and wrists
clean of the pawnticket stains of purple ink. 40
MORE POEMS 218
Firsthand I had from my father a love ingrown

tight as an oyster, and returned it
as secretly. From him firsthand
the grace of work, the sweat of it, the bone-
tired unfolding down from stress.
I was the bearer he paid up on demand
with one small pearl of selfhood. Portionless,
I am oystering still to earn it.
Not of the House of Rothschild, my father, my creditor

lay dead while they shaved his cheeks and blacked his
mustache. 50
My lifetime appraiser, my first prince whom death unhorsed

lay soberly dressed and barefoot to be burned.
That night, my brothers and I forced
the cap on his bottle of twenty-year-old scotch

and drank ourselves on fire beforehand
for the sacrament of closing down the hatch,
for the sacrament of easing down the ways
my thumblicking peeler of cash on receipt of the merchandise,
possessor of miracles left unredeemed on the shelf
after thirty days, 6°
giver and lender, no longer in hock to himself,

ruled off the balance sheet,
a man of great personal order
and small white feet.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

KUBLA KHAN
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

219 MORE POEMS
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30
The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played, 40
Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
50
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
— .
MORE POEMS 220
Robert Hayden
THE WHIPPING
The old woman across the way
is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
her goodness and his wrongs.
Wildly he crashes through elephant ears,

pleads in dusty zinnias,
while she in spite of crippling fat
pursues and corners him.
She strikes and

strikes the shrilly circling
boy the stick breaks
till 10
in her hand. His tears are rainy weather

to woundlike memories:
My head gripped in bony vise
of knees, the writhing struggle
to wrench free, the blows, the fear
worse than blows that hateful
Words could bring, the face that I
no longer knew or loved . .
Well, it is over now, it is over,

and the boy sobs in his room, 20
And the woman

leans muttering against
a exhausted, purged
tree,
avenged in part for lifelong hidings
she has had to bear.
221 MORE POEMS
David Swanger
HIGHER ECONOMICS
From The Term Structure of Interest Rates, by Jacob B. Michaelsen
(New York: Intext Educational Publishers, 1973).
Hedgers stay in their preferred habitat.

Speculators are willing to depart from it.
It may prove useful

to call these latter
"arbitrageurs."
Arbitrageurs then will depart

from their preferred habitat
but only for a price.
They are averse to risk.

They are most liquid
in their preferred habitat.
Wallace Stevens
PETER QUINCE AT THE CLAVIER
Just as my fingers on these keys

Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,

Is music. the strain
It is like
Waked in the elders by Susanna.
Of a green evening, clear and warm, 10
She bathed in her still garden, while

The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb

In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
—
MORE POEMS 222
II
In the green water, clear and warm,

Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found 20
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass, 30
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand

Muted the night.
She turned
A cymbal crashed,
And roaring horns. 40
in
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried

Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain

Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines

Fled, with a noise like tambourines. 50
—
223 MORE POEMS
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind

The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral. 60
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings

Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
Diane Wakoski
THE EMPRESS
She took the bone from her arm.
This music frenzied the wild gazelles
and the milk pigs running
under the high arches of her feet
and past her heavy black-budded breasts.
Taking this instrument
to
file
the words
in her 10
shawl, spilling
out in dis-
order/ honing each
syllable
till the screeching
became a har-
mony, till the buzz
— .
MORE POEMS 224
became small on the smooth edge

of a word,
she set herself 20
a simple task. But the music in her own

armbone was so loud
she set the thicket
within her
running. Arm bone. Arm bone. Arm bone.
The arm bone sings. The arm bone sings.
And the gazelle leap under her armpits.
The small pigs snuffle and run past
lips. The birds caw, caw.
What noise, 30
as she only makes

a word.
Commotion for
every syllable.
LeRoi Jones/Imamu Amiri Baraka

PREFACE TO A TWENTY VOLUME
SUICIDE NOTE
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way

The ground opens up and envelops me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars,

And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night, I tiptoed up

To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there . .
Only she on her knees,

Peeking into her own clasped hands.
225 MORE POEMS
W. H. Auden
IN MEMORY OF W. B. YEATS
d. Jan. 1939
He disappeared in the dead of winter:

The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness

The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable
quays;
By mourning tongues I0
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,

An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed: he became his
admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities

And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections;
To find his happiness in another kind of wood 20
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.

The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But importance and noise of tomorrow

in the
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor
of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly
accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his
freedom;
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly
unusual.
O all the instruments agree 30
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

MORE POEMS 226
II
You were silly like us: your gift survived it all;

The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its saying where executives
Would never want to tamper; it flows south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, 40
A way of happening, a mouth.
in
Earth, receive an honoured guest;
William Yeats is laid to rest:
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives 50
Everyone by whom it lives;

Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.
Time that with this strange excuse

Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait, 60
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
227 MORE POEMS
With the farming of a verse 70
Make a vineyard of the curse,

Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart

Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
Dylan Thomas
FERN HILL
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the
calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
MORE POEMS 228
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was
air 20
And playing, lovely and watery

And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All themoon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden, 30
The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking
warm
Out of the whinneying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways, 40
My wishes raced through the house high hay

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields 50
And wake farm forever fled from the childless land.

to the
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
229 MORE POEMS
Paul Simon
THE SOUND OF SILENCE
Hello darkness my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains within the sound of silence.
In restless dreams I walked alone,

Narrow streets of cobble stone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
Iturned my collar to the cold and damp 10
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light

That split the night, and touched the sound of silence.
And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people maybe more,
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dares disturb the sound of silence.
"Fools!" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows. 20
Hear my words that I might teach you

Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed, in the wells of silence.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon God they made,
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said:
"The words of the prophets are written 30
on the subway walls and tenement halls"

And whispered in the sounds of silence.
.
MORE POEMS 230
Thomas Hardy
HAP
Ifbut some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"
Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,

Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,

And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
— Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . .
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown

Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.
Robert Hershon
SPITTING ON IRA ROSENBLATT
It was a great pleasure

spitting on Ira Rosenblatt
a fine forbidden thing
denied me by his mother
and my mother to ensure
that I would pass my Sundays
He on the wall
in the alley, I
spittingon Ira Rosenblatt's
10
hair and face and shoulders
each time he tried to escape
It was a fine thing to torment him
such a sweet and industrious pleasure

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SWANC6R

HARCOURT BRACE JOVANOVICH, INC.

© 1974 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-16729

Printed in the United States of America

CREDITS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The assumption underlying The Poem as Process is that

to know it somewhat differently. The poem is a dynamic form

poetry: making poems, developing a poetic, responding to

III THE DILEMMA OF RESPONSE 62

V NEW USES FOR A POETIC

VI SHARING POETRY 164

MORE POEMS 185

My Parents Kept Me from Children

Leda and the Swan 188

Never Seek to Tell Thy Love 207

The Groundhog 212

In Memory of W. B. Yeats 225

Write a poem of any length, in any style, about anything. After

is that you make a poem and consider what is involved in

Most of my readers will have observed a small water-

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

As went along, thinking of nothing in particular, only

would usually be a lull of an hour or so, then perhaps the

The Name and the Nature of

Do not save time, but lose it.

JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU,

In the spring of 1972, when the United States launched its

technically, to mean an unexpected combination of ideas or

transaction between civilized men. I had no trouble, now,

the gold letters which appear backwards

I am not as you imagined, I know: smaller,

I likedwhat I had achieved with the doors inside office

transaction, that despite the familiarity of the setting and the

I understand the delicacy of your mission:

From this, the next stanza flowed wih relative ease:

Calm yourself. This dull wood, these curls

Later I changed "This dull wood" to "the wood's patina," and

Go along the corridor and do not be afraid

I'llbe behind the third door studying

I am not as you imagined, I know: smaller,

I understand the delicacy of your mission:

My work up to this point had been joyous, despite my

Our business is as simple as scratching . .

which I then altered and expanded to

I can see that God, as you say,

and you're in real estate; this deal

We've no bright lights nor cameras

Tailored men sign agreements like these

You are well tailored; your cheek

Tailored men sign agreements

Then, I tried similarly futile efforts using highway and automo-

Well-tailored men often sign agreements

Real estate, profits, the industrial pulse of highways none of —

satirical in their play on tailors, barber shops, television, gold-