I
find it very difficult to understand the thinking of poets who spend a lifetime
writing and publishing the same kinds of poems, over and over and over. I don’t
mean poets whose work simply bears certain hallmark stylistic or thematic
elements—that’s the mark of many a genius whose bodies of work are varied and
exploratory. I also don’t mean poets who always write in traditional form, or
who always write in the freest of verse—these poets often achieve great variety
of effect within similar structures. What I mean are poets who write poems in
the same voice, tone, and mood, with identical stylistic techniques, and which
have the same aesthetic effects on the reader in book after book after book. Living
poets that spring to mind are Kay Ryan, James Tate, Mary Oliver, Charles Wright, and Billy
Collins (who, to his credit, has published a book of haiku with Modern Haiku
Press—the Billy Collins book you've never read, but should).
Don’t
get me wrong—I like the work of each of these poets. But it does trouble me on
some level that the reasons I like the poems in Book A are the same reasons I
like the poems in Books B, C, D, and E. The poems look the same, sound the
same, taste, feel, smell the same! What mundane activity will be the subject of
Collins’ melancholy humor today? Which animal or plant will be the source of
wisdom in Oliver this week? I wonder what Ryan’s line breaks will be like in
this new book . . .
Are
these poets so essentially un-creative that the work they create is homogeneous?
Or have they simply found a style at which they can achieve mastery? Are
poets who employ various styles, forms, and voices diluting their abilities,
Jills and Jacks of all trades and masters of none?
And
then one thinks of Emily Dickinson, whose mastery is so undeniable and her
achievement so towering that one begins to think that her work alone is
sufficient reason for any poet to attempt to build a body of work made of
bricks of the same color, size, and shape . . . One thinks of the haiku
masters, whose bodies of work are contained in tiny syllabic packages of often
astonishing beauty and power . . .
Dear
reader, I seek your input.