Hi Helen -- again this went back-channel instead of to the
list in the first instance . . .
Yep, the minute I stepped away from the PC it occurred to me
that the 'spilling guts' issue was a thorny one.
Let me see if I can clarify what I meant (dangerous thing to do,
usually end up talking worse nonsense . . .)
What I'm *not* talking about is personal, emotional content in
poetry. To object to that would be plain silly. What I *am* talking
about is the level of transformation which takes place between
the private psyche and the public poem, which your quotation
of Eliot highlights exceptionally well. Possibly the best example
of the transformative process there is.
My reservations are with confessional poems of the type which
Plath had great talent for (and which Anne Sexton had none) --
in other words, to what extent are the private, un-self-censored
agonies of a writer suitable for poetry? At what point does this
type of poetry become self-indulgent or misplaced? How far
does it either consciously or unconsciously draw attention to
the writer more than it does to the poem itself? How far is
the writer in control of their subconscious spillage? In the final
analysis it's a question of maturity, surely.
I feel, personally, that a writer has a tremendous amount of
responsibility with regard to what they put in print -- there is
a civic function here. If writers are not their 'better selves' in
their work, but only caricatures of their worst selves, haven't we
a right to complain?
Elizabeth Jennings was in no less need of poetry than Plath,
but I see none of the excesses. No spilling of the guts. Which
is what makes her work inspirational as opposed to objectionable.
>women were concerned about Thalidomide<
Again, with reference to my earlier post, no one is doubting
that concern and no one is questioning the right to approach
it in literature. My distaste for the Plath poem arises from the
style in which she did it. I would also question her motivation
for doing so, as mentioned earlier.
All the best,
Andy
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