David Kirby: Makes a good salary. Doesn’t go to Olive Garden.
Philip Sidney, back in the 16th century, defended poetry against the charge that poetry is nothing but a pack of damn lies rather snarkily: “The poet never affirmith and therefore never lieth.”
Call this the Smart-Ass Defense: Poetry can be as naughty and lying as it wants to be because it’s only playin.
So Plato’s objection is put to rest, if we just don’t take poetry seriously.
But the rub here is that Sidney—who wasn’t “playin” when he died fighting Spain for Queen Elizabeth—was a secret Platonist.
The Shadow of Plato covers all: between science, religion, censorship and Ezra Pound, no one takes poetry seriously these days.
In the 19th century, poetry found its place as an expression of love, and this worked for awhile: you express love, but affirm nothing; love in its pure, unrequited state: OK, not bad.
But hubris struck hard in the 20th century as the poets suddenly wanted to be taken seriously again. Poets woke up to the fact that Plato had won. They didn’t like that, really.
Yes. Taken seriously. Not as a way to learn Latin. Not as a way to learn to Greek. Not as a way to express love. But seriously. We are Modernist! We are serious! We are interesting! We are historically significant!
Ezra Pound and a few friends began an Imagiste movement. They made a manifesto. But no one took them seriously. You’re just doing haiku, they said.
But haiku is pretty serious stuff. It affirms the natural fact, anyway.
Some kind of serious progress, in the name of “serious,” was being made.
But no one read these Modernists, printing their little poems in their little magazines. Yet something was happening in the world, something weird. Everyone was getting very serious. The Nazis. Modern art. It was all very, very weird. And serious.
And international. Ah, here was something. For Plato’s moral objection to art was based on making the state a strong, defensible entity. Morality is defense. The good is a wall.
But Internationalism has no walls.
Nazism was internationalist. Communism was internationalist. Modernism was internationalist.
Eliot in London, Pound in Axis Italy, Stein in Paris, Auden and Isherwood in Berlin and China, Bauhaus and Duchamp in New York.
But World War II defeated internationalism. The USA—and nationalism—emerged as strong as ever. Would the poets ever beat Plato?
Then came poetry—serious, international poetry’s—big chance: the university.
The Creative Writing Program model replaced the English Major model: living poets replaced dead poets.
Affirmation was back. You don’t pay tuition fees to poets unless you take them a little bit seriously.
Pedagogy in a university is nothing if not affirming and serious, and this pedagogy—we see it in Understanding Poetry, the New Critic’s textbook (the New Critics, allied with Pound and Williams)—brought Modernism into the Academy.
Poetry is serious again. Poets are now professors. They collect salaries. And their students now choose Creative Writing over Study of the Past.
So here we are in the present, and now we turn to our sordid tale of Professor Kirby, poet and fun-loving bad-ass known affectionately to his friends as “The Kirb.”
Since poets are affirming again, they are no longer critic-proof; for critics may now call them out—and, to put it bluntly, accuse them of lying.
This is what happened to David Kirby—depicted above in a photo gracing the cover of his latest book of poems, A Wilderness of Monkeys.
In a review of A Wilderness of Monkeys, here’s what a critic said:
I have an issue with David Kirby’s A Wilderness of Monkeys. I have a problem with this poetry!
But first, consider this: Kirby’s poems are fun, crazy, free-fall, a tumbling of words, a stream of whatever. Is he going somewhere? Is this random? Is it okay to be random? What does it all mean? Who really was the fattest president? Is Kirby simply being funny? Can a book of poetry be a series of jokes?
In “Legion, For We are Many,” he writes:I’m doing a couple of yoga stretches ina quiet cornerof the Atlanta airport because myflight’s delayed,though having said “Atlanta airport,”I realizethat I don’t have to say “my flight’sdelayed.”
I love that! Poetry can be so self serious! As with Alexie, it’s nice to see some humor!
“Massages by Blind Masseurs” starts off:My tree guy and I are watching as theman with the chipperarrives, and I say, “Mr. Pumphrey,every once in a whileI read that somebody gets tired of hiswife and knocks heron the head and passes her throughone of these chippers,”and he says, “I know, Mr. Kirby—terrible isn’t it?” and thenhe says, “And it doesn’t do the chipperany good either.”
Hilarious. A number of the poems in this collection are just as strange and funny.
But still, I have an issue. It lies in the poem “Good Old Boys,” where David Kirby mentions people who got take-out from the Olive Garden and left their puppy nearly to die in an overheated truck cab. He derides them, saying,Besides who getstake-out from the Olive Garden?You miss out on the endlessbreadsticks and salad that way.
Here, here is the rub. Mr. Kirby writes about Olive Garden as if he actually goes to that restaurant. But in the author’s photo on the back of the book, Mr. David Kirby sits on a porch next to a black wrought iron fence, wearing a smart haircut and a splendid poet’s uniform of black sport coats and (I believe) dark jeans, with a Robert O. Lawton Professor of English at Florida State University annual salary of $127,080. All of which leads me to believe he has not set one foot inside an Olive Garden for the past 15 years.
If this is true, clearly it undermines his credibility as a poet who can write authentically about Olive Garden! Even if he has gone there recently, we may guess that he went with irony, with a “slumming” self-awareness that he was going someplace faux-classy like Olive Garden.
So tell us Kirby: what is the deal with Olive Garden? We want to give you a fair shake. We’d like to give you credit. Author photos and biographies can be deceiving. People are different ways. But we just don’t know. This anti-review may just have to leave off with a brocade of doubt stitched into its David Kirby section.
(Then again, that may be the point of an anti-review.)
The whole review, by Joe Hoover, which looks at a number of poets, can be found here.
Ever since Ezra Pound settled in fascist Italy, began his fascist Broadcasts, and was lauded in the influential New Critics’ textbook, Understanding Poetry, and the Program Era began in earnest, poetry is serious business.
Sure, here we have Olive Garden in this instance, as opposed to Mussolini and the Cantos in the other, but here’s the real issue: the poet now affirms, and is meant to be taken seriously.
John Ashbery is critic-proof, because no one quite knows what he is talking about. Ashbery “never affirmith,” sly devil. He belongs to Sidney’s world. Poetry as a waking dream, perhaps.
Not Kirby. He, with his professor’s six figure salary, belongs to the new poetry of affirmation. He writes truthfully of real things: Olive Garden.
Or, and perhaps this is what annoyed the reviewer: “Good Old Boys.”
Working class people from the South. People who don’t make 127,080 a year. People like the orphaned newspaper reviewer, Edgar Poe, slammed for his “pure poetry” in the same textbook that praised Ezra Pound and his friend William Carlos Williams, poets of real things and natural facts.
Kirby, as a poet, has a great sense of humor, as Mr. Hoover—who seems like a pretty good reviewer—points out; but wit can hide a sting, and in this case, Mr. Hoover finds Kirby’s sting offensive: professor Kirby uses Olive Garden to “deride” the “good old boys” of his poem.
When your poem contains the following information, “good old boys who got take-out from Olive Garden left their puppy nearly to die in an overheated truck cab,” you are affirming.
When you affirm, you make the mistake of not listening to Philip Sidney. As a poet, you open yourself up to a world of hurt.
The critic, like a pickerel waiting in the reeds, strikes: “Mr. Kirby writes about Olive Garden as if he actually goes to that restaurant.”
“But in the author’s photo on the back of the book, Mr. David Kirby sits on a porch next to a black wrought iron fence, wearing a smart haircut and a splendid poet’s uniform of black sport coats and (I believe) dark jeans, with a Robert O. Lawton Professor of English at Florida State University annual salary of $127,080.”
Does he really make that much money?
“All of which leads me to believe he has not set one foot inside an Olive Garden for the past 15 years.”
The stinger has been stung.
The reviewer has strayed from the poem to the poet.
But remember that Sidney said, “the poet never affirmith.”
Once you affirm, not only is your poetry fair game for the Platonist critique, but so are you.
Rumor has it that Kirby is incensed, but the whole thing can, perhaps, be laughed off as a tempest in a teacup.
But we see Kirby v. Hoover as a significant skirmish in the endless campaign by the poets to 1) be taken seriously and 2) defeat Plato—who would never pay a poet 127,080 a year.