A good poet
friend, Nils Peterson, recently lent me an out of print gem. Perhaps some
remember the book since it was in print in the early 1960’s and likely has hung
around in many poets’ bookshelves long since the way it has in Nils’ (along
with a good many other out of print gems, that emeritus elf). The Contemporary Poet as Artist and Critic
edited by Anthony Ostroff is subtitled as Eight
Symposia and proves to be just that, an intelligent and revealing meeting
of opinion. Each symposium is comprised of three poets’ critiques to a “recent”
poem of an “important contemporary,” followed by the author’s own response to
the poem and to the peer commentary. What an intelligent idea! As Ostroff remarks
in his 1964 foreword, “the scheme introduces something new in literary
criticism,” that is, “calling upon poets
to perform the essential critical task.” Which puts me in mind of the Foreword
to this year’s Best of.
While 1964
no longer serves as contemporary, the list of participating poets is stellar
and to which I do a disservice by merely highlighting: Auden to Berryman to
Bogan, Deutsch to Dickey to Justice, Kunitz to
Rukeyser. A regular pantheon! (please forgive me for those I left off). Is
there another recent if not contemporary collection similar to this in its
intent? Ostroff’s symposia prove to be a superbly illuminating and enjoyable
set of conversations by some of the most-admired 20th century+ poets
who thoughtfully consider the work of their peers for the purpose of
understanding instead of ranking (or should I say rankling). How civilized!
Imagine! I have yet to read all the entries, but I found this author’s response
speaks as volubly into our contemporary moment.
of This World” as given by May Swenson, Robert Horan, and Richard Eberhart. “…I
can only say that it is good to be so thoroughly understood. However troubled
by the desire to please, poets soon come to ignore most of the criticism they
receive; approval or condemnation are not interesting in the absence of
understanding…(these three poets) have been willing to perform the humble,
fundamental task of criticism—the interpretation of the work in the light of
its apparent intention. Three critics would not have been so modest or so
penetrating.” The appreciation in his words is understandably palpable. And
unfortunately still contemporary. Wilbur goes on another good four pages specifically
answering their critique with civility and equal insight. It’s kind of like
watching My Dinner with Andre.
Somewhere in the midst you realize how rare true conversation has become.
minimum, find yourself a copy (me first!), but perhaps some other remarkably
generous editor can put together a similar symposia with similarly inclined
poets. And if
someone decides to pursue a symposia as practiced by the ancient Greeks, some “convivial
meeting for drinking, music, and intellectual discussion,” can I please get on
the invitation list? That’s my idea of good times.
Richard Wilbur's poem referred to above, "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" speaks of angels and love and I think particularly appropriate to this season so I've included it beyond the extended entry, below. I hope you enjoy its mysteries as I have.
And as for real men? See ya
tomorrow for that one.
Love Calls Us to the Things
of This World
The eyes open to a
cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.
Some are in
bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;
Now they are
flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down in so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks
From all that it
is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
"Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven."
Yet, as the sun
acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,
"Bring them
down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits, keeping their difficult balance."