I am in the hospital for the fourth time in the past five months, this time for excruciating abdominal pain that turned out to be due to a bowel obstruction which has still not cleared up. I have had a tube down my throat and have been unable to eat for over a week. I spend most of my days trying to sleep through the pain and nausea.
In the course of the various tests to try to determine the cause of the obstruction, my surgeon found several large masses on my liver which, after a blood test and a liver biopsy, have turned out to be a fast-growing resurgence of my colon cancer. Thus I am in the hospital cancer ward for the foreseeable future, starting chemotherapy again (it had been on hold during my assorted medical crises of the past few months), before I have had time to fully recover from my recent illnesses and surgeries. I don’t have wi-fi access in my room, but my darling Robert is posting this for me.
Doug Powell recently wrote on this site about the late gay Tim Dlugos, which reminded me of one of my favorite of Dlugos’s poems. It’s one of the last poems Dlugos wrote before he died of AIDS in 1990, and my recent brush with death has made it particularly resonant for me.
The rather lively response to my previous two posts on this topic has prompted me to post this excerpt from a piece on which I have been working for a while. I hope that it generates similar interest.
Due to the heavily policed institutional borders between creative writing and criticism or literature, the interrelationship of the two is often obscured. Creative writers, seeing themselves as the keepers of the sacred flame of literature, engage in frequent polemics against the destructive encroachments of theory and criticism on creativity, while theorists largely ignore or at best disdain the unselfconscious effusions of authors who refuse to accept the news of their death.
I was rather surprised by some of the responses I received to my original post on this topic. I consider thinking about poetry to be an essential element of reading and writing poetry, though obviously not all poets take the further step of _writing_ about poetry. However, literary criticism (which is a genre, and which is not the same thing as thought about literature) is a second-order activity, dependent on the existence of literature for its own existence, and existing for the purpose of illuminating literature. It is not an end in itself, but a means to an end. In that sense, it might well be considered parasitic, or at least, as Joseph Hutchison puts it, derivative: literary criticism couldn’t exist without literature, but literature can easily exist without literary criticism (which, again, is not the same as thinking about literature). Literary critics know this, which is why they make such frequent claims that literary criticism is of the same status or even kind as literarature. Michael Robbins’ assertion that “Criticism is an imaginative activity in its own right, in no way secondary to the creative work it engages” would be an example of such a claim. To which the simple reply is: no, it is not.
I adore Doug Powell as a poet and a person, but I must disagree with his recent post regarding poets and critics. It’s true that the skills required to be a poet and the skills required to be a critic are distinct, but they’re related, and to be a good writer one needs at least some of the skills of a good critic. (I also know from his writing that whatever Doug says about the divide, he has both.)
I am back home from the hospital and hopefully on the mend for good this time.
Since I note that August Kleinzahler is once again foaming at the mouth about some utterly imaginary and wholly evil version of MFA programs, about which he clearly knows nothing, I thought that I’d throw in my two cents, since I have two MFA degrees and thus some experience in the matter. I got those degrees because I was tired of doing data entry and other menial labor for not much money. I wanted to be able devote my time and energy to reading and writing, and to be in a context in which those things weren’t ignored at best and disdained at worst. After being nearly crushed by the so-called real world, the idea of hanging out with a group of people who liked books was novel and appealing.
While I am still in the hospital, I’m having Robert post this piece:
Jack Spicer’s notion of poetry as dictation is hardly original (and originality is a notion Spicer would quarrel with in any case), but Spicer acknowledges its sources and rings his own changes on them: Yeats’ spooks bringing him metaphors for his poetry, or Cocteau’s Orphée writing down poems broadcast on the ghost radio. That the idea of dictation can itself be read as dictated makes perfect sense. Part of the point of Spicer’s poetics is that everything comes from the outside; there’s no romantic interiority generating poems in the sensitive soul. This is a useful corrective to the fetishization of personal creativity, proposing instead what Robin Blaser calls the practice of outside. As Spicer writes of his posthumous collaboration with Garcia Lorca, “It was a game made out of summer and freedom and a need for a poetry that would be more than the expression of my hatreds and desires. It was a game like Yeats’ spooks or Blake’s sexless seraphim” (After Lorca).
While I am recovering from surgery that will hopefully put at end to my cycle of illness, I am having Robert post another tribute to my mentor Alvin Feinman.
So it is midnight, and all
The angels of ordinary day gone,
The abiding absence between day and day
Come like true and only rain
Comes instant, eternal, again:
As though an air had opened without sound
In which all things are sanctified,
In which they are at prayer—
The drunken man in his stupor,
The madman’s lucid shrinking circle;
As though all things shone perfectly,
Perfected in self-discrepancy:
The widow wedded to her grief,
The hangman haloed in remorse—
I should not rearrange a leaf,
No more than wish to lighten stones
Or still the sea where it still roars—
Here every grief requires its grief,
Here every longing thing is lit
Like darkness at an altar.
As long as truest night is long,
Let no discordant wing
Corrupt these sorrows into song.
I am still in the hospital, awaiting surgery on an abdominal fistula that refuses to heal on its own—quite the contrary—but it’s very important to me to have Robert post this piece.
1
The wonderful poet, teacher and friend Alvin Feinman died a few days ago after a long struggle with emphysema and Parkinson’s disease. Alvin was one of the most important people in my poetic life, and I would like to pay him some small homage here.
Alvin Feinman was born in 1929 and raised in New York City. Though he has been named by Harold Bloom as part of the essential canon of Western literature—Bloom has written that “The best of his poems stand with the most achieved work of his generation”—Feinman is not included in any of the standard anthologies of modern or modern American poetry, not even Cary Nelson’s recent Oxford Anthology of Modern American Poetry, which explicitly aims at recovering and rediscovering neglected writers. Nor is he listed in the purportedly comprehensive Contemporary Authors reference series.
I am in the hospital with complications from my previous illness. In the meantime, my partner Robert is posting this piece of mine for me.
Despite its many accomplishments over the past century or more, poetic experimentation for its own sake has gotten become rather routine, even rote. By now it has frequently come to seem like a form of keeping up with fashion: never wear the same outfit twice, make sure you’re wearing next season’s clothes. This is part of what Jack Spicer means when he writes to the long dead Federico Garcia Lorca that “Invention is merely the enemy of poetry.” Those trendy outfits also strikingly resemble the clothes they wore in the Nineteen Teens and Twenties (many things new are old), which too many people too often forget. As Mexican poet Octavio Paz noted in the mid-Nineteen-Sixties, “the avant-garde of 1967 repeats the deeds and gestures of those of 1917.” So many of the “experiments” in which our avant-garde engage were performed by Eliot, Pound, Moore, Williams, et alia, long before any of our current practitioners was born. There’s nothing wrong with using techniques that have already been developed (the English language is one of those techniques, after all), but there’s something unseemly about claiming that you invented them yesterday.
Like the previous post, this fourth and final post on this topic was largely prompted by Brent Cunningham’s comments on the second post. Some of it will be more clear if readers refer back to that post and its comment stream while reading this entry.
I like the terms “Modern” and “Modernist” because of their bare descriptiveness: they make few claims but the chronological, their efflorescence coinciding with the transformation of western culture and society into what we now call the modern world. Modern art is the art of the modern world: perhaps one could call modernist art the art that is self-consciously so. Though Bürger undoubtedly means a disparagement in comparing avant-garde and modern/modernist art, the art that has lasted has been that which, like Cubism (again, his example) has set itself to explore the possibilities of the medium.
If by “experimental” one means “trying something out to see what happens,” then that still seems useful as a term and a procedure. Wallace Stevens wrote that all good poetry is experimental poetry; that may be an overstatement, but there is a great deal of truth to it. It’s when the term “experimental,” like the term “avant-garde,” begins to be used evaluatively rather than descriptively that it becomes problematic. The attitude and activity of exploration and experimentation was and isn’t restricted to those who either proclaimed themselves or were proclaimed to be “avant-garde.” As Henry Gould has pointed out on a different post’s comment thread, much of John Berryman’s work is in style and attitude as wildly exploratory as anything in The New American Poetry, about which there was so much discussion some time ago.
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