The ideological imagination, grounded in a constant awareness of conflict
& suffering, the "facts on the ground", takes on a dramatic coloring,
a theatricality of its own. Thus comets of nemesis circle the perimeter,
ready to strike what appear to be artistic extensions or pretensions
from positions of privilege into the realm of esthetics ("is poetry
like architecture?") - condemning them as self-serving aggrandizement
of already compromised & worldly artists. In this climate Peter Riley's
hypothesis that "poetry has no social role" has a certain value, in that
it protects the particular esthetic experience of poetry from
these dialectical contortions. Nevertheless, I don't think it's strictly
accurate, despite its usefulness in distinguishing poetry from these
scorched-earth turf wars of sophistical "talk-about" on the one hand
and nihilistic "O'Brien family" kitsch on the other. However, another
comment of Riley's in an earlier discussion might be worth recalling if
we have any real interest in focusing on poetry on this discussion list:
that was his tripartite distinction between: 1) literary promotion;
2) literary analysis; and 3) literary criticism. I think if we
want to reach at least #2 on this chat list, not to mention #3, we
should try to have particular poems or poets as the basis for discussion -
even if our interest is comparative in terms of general literary trends,
if there are such things. Otherwise I think the esthetics of ideological
melodrama will displace the actual appreciation of poetry, which I think
is the purpose of this list. Appreciation of poetry & ideology/history
do not necessarily displace one another: but an empirical approach with
examples would assist in finding the sorts of synthesis toward which
critical thinking about art aspires. Only a suggestion to all parties
to strengthen their arguments with examples.
Here's another old poem. It's windy, rainy & gray here in Providence
this Sunday. I like it.
IN THE CLAY
Adam, under the rain.
Under the somber branches.
To soften, to cross out
the scrawl in the clay -
evening in summer,
buried, sleeping.
*
Your name is blind,
your name, nowhere.
Your name in the ice,
in amber, solid memory.
An outline under the
compass of my lips.
*
Blessed be the name
in the rainy dusk,
on the long road
under the bridges.
Blessed silence
for hearing you.
*
Under the old rain,
motionless, lips
flower - a rose
in the slow night;
breathing, solitary,
heavy with time.
- Henry
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