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As the shadows lengthen on American poetry in the 21st century, one is naturally prepared to think there was a noisy, sunny noon of poetry with noisy, popular poets.

But there never was such a thing.

We had, in our early days, the British imitators: William Cullen Bryant, (friend to Lincoln) with his “Thanatopsis”; the splendid, dark Poe; dashing in his prose but solemn and brief in his poetry; Emerson and Thoreau asserting nature, not poetry, in due obeisance to the arrogant British idea that her late colony was still a wilderness; Whitman secretly reviewing his own poems, waving a private Emerson letter in the public’s face as way of validation, but Whitman was almost as obscure as Dickinson—no, America has had no sunny noon of poetry; Ben Franklin, the diplomat-scientist-founding father, representing our mighty nation of pragmatists, had little use for the muse.

To put things in historical perspective:

Emily Dickinson caught on with modern critics as a force to be reckoned with in the 1930s.

Billy Collins was born in 1941.

A few years after Billy Collins was born, Ezra Pound—friend to both anglophilic “Waste Land” and haiku-like “Wheel Barrow”—caused a brief stir as a traitor in an Allied cage. The New Critics liked Eliot, Pound, and Williams and gave them critical support, some notice. Otherwise they had probably died. And the canon would be ruled instead by the wild sonneteer, Edna Millay, the Imagist, Amy Lowell, perhaps the cute scribbler E.E. Cummings.

The New Critics, the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, and the Creative Writing Program Era, all began to flower in the late 1930s/early 1940s, around the time Collins was born—and, a few years earlier, you had Frost (discovered in England, not New England, right before the First World War, as Harriet Monroe was starting Poetry with money from Chicago businessmen—and help from foreign editor Ezra Pound) and then another generation back, you have the end of Whitman’s obscure career. And then a couple generations further back, the often disliked, and controversial, Poe, who mocked the somewhat obscure Transcendentalists—including Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Unitarian friend, William Greenleaf Eliot,  founder of Washington University in St. Louis, T.S. Eliot’s grandfather.

So not only is there no noisy noon of American poetry, no period when gigantic dinosaurs of American Verse ruled the earth, one could almost argue that we are still in the early morning of our country’s poetic history, way before noon—the noon has not even happened yet, as much as we often posit that American poetry is an abandoned field at sundown, where the 21st century MFA mice are playing.

Even if good poetry abounds in America today, it has no center, no fame, no visible love; Billy Collins, who sells a few books, was a teen when Allen Ginsberg, son of poet Louis Ginsberg, who knew WC Williams, achieved a bit of rock star fame through an obscenity trial. Allen Ginsberg has been dead for 20 years.

What of poets born after 1950?

Who knows them?

Where are the biographies and critical studies?

How can the greatest country on earth have no poets anyone really knows, for two whole generations?

Who is a young poet that we know?

Is the thread broken?  Is the bowl shattered? Will the sun never shine on this doorway again? What has happened to American poetry?

This sobering preface of mine (some might call it too sweeping and hysterical) is written by one who is proud to announce his critical study of the poet Ben Mazer is soon to be published by the noteworthy Pen and Anvil Press.

Who is Ben Mazer?

Born in 1964, he is the best pure poet writing in English today.

We use the word “pure” knowing the term is sometimes abused—Robert Penn Warren ripped Poe and Shelley to pieces in a modern frenzy of “purity” hating: sublime and beautiful may also, complexly, mean “pure.”  The heart has its reasons for loving purity—which all the Robert Penn Warren essays in the world can never understand (the essay we have in mind by Warren is “Pure and Impure Poetry,” Kenyon Review, ed. John Crowe Ransom, 1943—when Billy Collins was two years old).  If “beautiful and sublime” seem too old-fashioned, too “pure” for one’s taste, I assert “purity” as it pertains to Mazer means 1. accessible 2. smooth 3. not tortured.

Mazer has published numerous books of poems.

Mazer is also the editor of a number of important books, including the Collected Poems of John Crowe Ransom (a neglected, but extremely influential figure)—Mazer’s large book reviewed by Helen Vendler in the NYR last year.

February Poems is Mazer’s latest book of poems, following hard upon December Poems. The two are a pair—marking the sudden unraveling of an ideal marriage.

The first poem in “February Poems” goes like this:

The sun burns beauty; spins the world away,
though now you sleep in bed, another day
brisk on the sidewalk, in your camel coat,
in another city, wave goodbye from the boat,
or study in an archival library,
like Beethoven, and thought is prodigy.
Do not consume, like the flowers, time and air
or worm-soil, plantings buried in the spring,
presume over morning coffee I don’t care,
neglect the ethereal life to life you bring.
O I would have you now, in all your glory,
the million-citied, Atlantic liner story
of what we were, would time come to forget
being so rich and passing, and yet not covet.

This poem falls from the first word to the last with a temporal perfection not seen since Milton. One may recognize Robert Lowell, too, who was somewhat besotted with Milton—Mazer’s a better poet than Lowell, however.

Look at how in “The Sun Burns Beauty,” every line is packed with sublimity discretely spoken, none the less sublime for the discretion:

“The sun burns beauty.”  Lovely double meaning. Consumes beauty, but also is beautiful. “Burns” quickly gives way to “spins,” as the poem, like a heavenly orb, picks up weighty speed: “another day, brisk on the sidewalk…wave goodbye…” the stunning plea: “Do not consume…presume I don’t care…neglect the ethereal life to life you bring…” and the conclusion, worthy of a sun which is burning beauty: “O I would have you now…of what we were, would time come to forget being so rich and passing, and yet not covet.”  Magnificent.  How long have we waited for poetry like this?   It’s truly timeless in the tradition—a word we can use without any qualification or irony.

We mentioned purity above; another way of getting across what I mean is Mazer’s use of Eliot’s Objective Correlative.

Eliot’s Objective Correlative is not a blackboard term for Mazer; it lives in his poetry. Eliot asked that the poem’s emotion match the object. Eliot’s request is a simple one: the reader doubts the poem’s veracity if the poet is unduly excited by a mundane object.

The poet’s emotions tell him what to say; and it is with our emotions we read the poem.

Much is made in poetry (naturally) of the skill in using words—Mazer clearly has a wonderful vocabulary and all that; yet also, in Mazer’s poetry, fact does match feeling; it’s not a word-game—Mazer’s trajectory isn’t words.  Mazer understands the Objective Correlative.

T.S. Eliot represents the Modernist counter to the perceived hyperbolic imbalance of the Romantics: Wordsworth getting terribly excited by a flower, Byron yawning at the end of the world—it cuts both ways.

Eliot’s objective critical dictum was a correction—and Mazer, who, in many ways, is Romanticism redux, instinctively, now, well into the 21st century, obeys Eliot’s dictum—but flexibly.

We’ve got Wordsworth and his famous dictum from “Lyrical Ballads:” poetry helps us to see the mundane as extraordinary, using plain speech, which goes against Eliot’s rule—and Mazer is not only a Robert Lowell, an Eliot, but a Wordsworth.

Mazer sounds Modern.

As he revives Romanticism.

And, I dare to say, the Enlightenment—when the Metaphysicals provided poetry heft and light.

Revival is always open to the charge of retrograde.

But how many layers of post-modern experimentation are there?

Before the public gets bored?

Oh, yes, that happened about 75 years ago.  When Billy Collins was born. And critics were rising to an appreciation of Emily Dickinson.

John Ashbery, born in 1927, had a head start on Mazer—Ashbery added Romantic verbosity to Modern dryness, irony, archness, in a painterly, foggy mix of not quite making sense. Mazer, if it must be said plainly, is a little better than Ashbery. Mazer does make sense.

The poems in Mazer’s February Poems do not, for the most part, have titles—to the worshiper who would carry around this book of love, like a holy book of some sorts, the page numbers will suffice to identify the great passages within.

These lines which begin the poem on page 7 speak out plainly and passionately but with the greatest mystery:

All grand emotions, balls, and breakfasts,
make little sense, if nothing lasts,
if you should leave the one you love,
inexplicable as Mozart’s star above

This passage at the top of page 8, a new poem, may be a statement for the ages:

The living are angels, if we are the dead in life
and immaculate beauty requires discerning eyes
and to ask incessantly who you are
is both our strength and doubt in faith, to know
what we must appear within ourselves to know:
that we do love each other, that we know who each other is
by putting ourselves in the hands and the eyes of the other,
never questioning the danger that rides on words
if they should misstep and alter a logical truth,
or if they should signify more than they appear to,
whether dull, indifferent, passionate, deeply committed
or merely the embodiment of a passing mood,
some lack of faith in ourselves we attempt to realize
through the other who remains steadfast in all the flexibility of love.

This is stuff which could be read at weddings on top of mountains around the world.

The poem which resides at page 15 goes like this, (and observe how “love” in the first line both is invaded, and invades, the “fiercest passion”—as Mazer has crafted the syntax):

The fiercest passion, uncommon in love,
yearns to be understood, do incalculable good;
must penetrate the beloved’s eyes, give rise
to beauty unmatched anywhere above.

Note the lovely internal rhyming: “understood and good” in line 2, “eyes” and “rise” in line 3, are but two examples.

We’ll continue with the whole poem, “The fiercest passion, uncommon in love:”

Infinite stasis exploring tenderness,
substantially is the basis of all bliss,

“Infinite stasis exploring tenderness” !!

although ethereal, indelible,
not subject to the chronologic fall.
And yet vicissitudes will upset this,
and forces will keep true lovers apart
too many years, breaking the sensitive heart,
that pours its passion in undying letters,
while hope’s alive to break the social fetters,
incalculable agonies poured into great art.
Bribes the organist, locks the door,
unwilling to suffer any more,
must make his grand statement to the world,
all his grief, anger, and love hurled
back at the gods which all his genius spited;
his biography says love was unrequited.
We live in the shadow of his despair,
grief so great, where there is nothing there.

And here it ends. This is not egotistical…”We live in the shadow of his despair” refers to the “shadow” of the poem itself (its inky visage) living to the readers as they read, and the “grief” of the poet is “so great,” the poem disappears (“nothing there”)—the very opposite of egotistical; it is grief conveyed powerfully.

The entire book—February Poems—contains lines such as these—which belong to an expression of love poetry rarely seen.

The poems range from greatest bliss:

The moonlight is incomprehensible.
My lover’s lips are soft and rosy pink.
Who could understand love which transfigures night,
when night itself does the transfiguring?
She sleeps. Awake, I hold her in my arms,
so soft and warm, and night is beautiful.

…In sleep she moans and shifts, embracing me.
I can’t budge from where I lie, but am content.

(excerpt from poem on pg. 16)

To acute despair, not merely told, explained, but in the poetry itself, lived:

The vanishing country roads have vanished.
There, the steep descent into the new, different town.
We are together, and we look around.
What are these flags and trees that grasp and clutch
the infinite progress of our former selves,
of love so great that it must be put away,
not where we left it, but where we can’t reach;
why should eternity itself miss you so much?
The music of a thousand kinds of weather
seep into the trees, sweep into the leaves that brush
your shoulder lightly where I left my heart,
once, long ago, when we first made our start
to drive so many miles to here together.
But where is here? The place we are apart.

(poem, “Vanishing country roads,” pg 64)

To pure sublimity and beauty and joy:

The greatest joy known to mortal man,
shall live beyond us in eternity.
Catching you ice-skating in mid-motion,
cheeks flush, winter pristine in our hearts,
ineffable, permanent, nothing can abolish,
when the deep forest, buried in snow’s white
holds the soul’s eternal solitude,
when, melting coming in, each particular
that stirs the senses, is the flight of man
to unspoken urgencies, garrulous desire
continually fulfilled, the captured stances
that drift like music in the light-laced night,
shared words in murmurs soft as downy sky,
the stars observe with their immortal eye.
Furious, presto-forte homecoming
races into the eyes and fingertips,
confirming and commemorating bells
resounding with our vulnerable desire
in momentary triumph that’s eternal.
Life passes on to life the raging stars,
resonances of undying light.
All years are pressed together in their light.

(“The greatest joy known to mortal man” pg 17)

We wish for a whole generation of young readers to spring up, profoundly and happily in love—following in the footsteps of Mazer, in his growing fame, in his mourning—clinging fast to their torn and re-smoothed copies of February Poems.




  1. March 22, 2017 at 2:30 am

    Gee, Tom. I thought you hated ‘modern’ verse.
    Curiouser and curiouser.

    • March 22, 2017 at 3:15 am

      Of course, you describe E. E. Cummings as a “cute scribbler”. What can you say?
      I suppose you would describe Albert Einstein as an ‘interesting crackpot’.

  2. thomasbrady said,

    March 22, 2017 at 12:43 pm

    Gary, what do you mean by ‘modern verse?’ Free verse? Or modern rhyme? Because those two are completely different things.

    How do you go from Cummings’ cute punctuation and white spacing to the great Einstein?

    • March 22, 2017 at 2:44 pm

      They were critical of Jackson Pollock too. Maybe you can find one of his paintings for less than a few million bucks.

      • March 22, 2017 at 2:53 pm

        What do Cummings, Pollock and Einstein have in common? They all did something nobody ever did before. It’s called creativity (or genius).

      • Surazeus said,

        March 22, 2017 at 8:00 pm

        Pollock splattered paint at a canvas. That is not art. A true artist carefully arranges paint so it depicts the illusion of reality.

        I have been heard to say, “anybody can do that.”

        People have replied, “but he did and you did not.”

        My reply is, “yeah, because it’s childish and there is no art to splattering paint on a wall.”

        Just because people are willing to pay a million bucks for a Pollock painting does not make his painting art. It makes those people who buy them to be fools who got conned.


        • thomasbrady said,

          March 22, 2017 at 8:04 pm


          Modern Art was a CIA/John Dewey/Rockefeller, Get Rich Quick scam. There’s a fascinating story why a Pollock costs so much. Do some reading and find out why. Instead of just blindly boasting about the sticker price. There’s lots of idiotic things which no one has ever done before. Originality is ONE criterion.

        • Anonymous said,

          July 30, 2019 at 11:32 pm

          Yours is a very child-like notion of art. A million bucks may not be a good argument, but millions of people taking Pollack seriously, thousands of critical pieces (pro and con) do make something art, whether it’s to your liking or not. The many movements of abstract art that emerged in 20th century have only enriched (for those open to non-representational art) the experience of art. Same for other movements like minimalist art, conceptual, pop, landscape art, etc.

  3. March 22, 2017 at 10:18 pm

    Obviously, I’m in the wrong club. I wish you Godspeed and good luck.


  4. March 22, 2017 at 10:30 pm

    Well, I’m on a different device now while the other one is charging and I guess I forgot to change my pseudonym.

    I just wanted to say thanks for your blog. It’s been a lot of fun.



    • Desdi said,

      March 23, 2017 at 9:48 pm

      Don’t go away upset over something as silly as Jackson Pollock and the ramifications of modernism in art…
      lighten up and read The Painted Word by Tom Wolfe.
      It will all make sense, I promise.

      Click to access Tom_Wolfe_The_Painted_Word__1975.pdf

      • March 24, 2017 at 12:35 am

        Thanks, Desdi. I’m familiar with the book. The issue is not Jackson Pollock or E. E. Cummings. The issue is blind close-mindedness.
        “This is not what I like therefore it is not good!”

        Surely there’s a reason we all know these names sixty years after Pollock died, over fifty years after Cummings died and, for that matter, forty-five years after Jim Morrison died. Just because one doesn’t personally care for a particular thing doesn’t mean it has no redeeming value. Some prefer Mozart, some like the Stones.
        My wife loves Italian food. I hate tomato sauce. I love seafood and raw oysters. She hates fish. Such is life.
        I’ll tell you this much, if I could just “splatter paint at a canvas” and get a million bucks for it, I’d head for the Hobby Lobby right now.


        • March 24, 2017 at 1:49 am

          That is to say: “Different strokes for different folks.”

          There is no such thing as better . . . only different.

          • March 24, 2017 at 5:19 am

            What’s YOUR favorite color? Blue? Red? Green? Yellow?

            So which is better, a Cardinal, a Blue Jay, a Parrot or a Canary?

            • thomasbrady said,

              March 24, 2017 at 9:27 am


              Don’t be such a grump.

              You hate tomato sauce????


              You’re crazy, man! 😉


              • March 24, 2017 at 4:36 pm

                Ha! I’ll trade you a plate of spaghetti for a nice lobster any day.

                • thomasbrady said,

                  March 24, 2017 at 7:29 pm

                  As long as there’s meatballs!

  5. maryangeladouglas said,

    March 23, 2017 at 10:01 am

    I felt glad to read this essay. Many things to think about here. I felt glad to read Ben Mazer’s poetry, even to know about his poetry. It is wonderful and thrilling even, I say without exaggeration to read someone writing IN OUR TIMES weaving thought and emotion harplike through traditional forms of poetry and traditional forms with slight and subtle variations. I am also glad that Thomas Graves is writing a book on Ben Mazer and that this book is being published. Thank you for so many reasons to be glad at once poetry wise. And it is amazing to think that America is still in the morning of poetry. This thought alone made me very happy. Wherever strong and vital encouragement can come from in spades to continue eternally in poetry I hope it comes to Ben Mazer and that his lyricism will be acknowledged and the musicality of his verses especially. Very lovely work and privileged to know about it I feel.

    • Mr. Woo said,

      March 24, 2017 at 7:41 pm

      Yes, it really is wonderful and thrilling. I’m very much looking forward to reading Tom’s book on Mazer.

      Perhaps a little ways down the road a “rebel” anthology of living poets could be compiled and published, one that would actually appeal to a general audience.

      I don’t think this is overly ambitious; though it would certainly constitute an formidable task, and I only have the faintest notion of the logistics required to pull it off.

      I think there’s enough truly good (and some great) poems floating about to make it more than worthwhile.

  6. Mr. Woo said,

    March 24, 2017 at 7:29 pm

    “The living are angels” passage…wow. I mean, really.

    When I first started reading Mazer I often found I had a hard time following him, and for me some of his poems still seem incredibly obscure, although that probably speaks to deficiencies on my part, but in reading and re-reading December Poems I’ve been struck by the incredibly clarity on display.

    He really is the anti-fragmentist, you can’t isolate a line without losing the air and earth (the surrounding lines) that support it. Of course you can isolate a line or two and the beauty still shines through.

    Looking forward to reading February.

  7. Paul said,

    March 29, 2017 at 7:51 pm

    If you liked December Poems, you will love February Poems. It’s restorative in many ways.

  8. Anonymous said,

    April 17, 2017 at 8:49 pm

    And if I neither like December nor February Poems,
    should I wait for the April ones?!

    • thomasbrady said,

      April 17, 2017 at 8:56 pm

      April Come She Will

  9. Jim Finnegan said,

    July 30, 2019 at 4:50 pm

    I enjoy meditative poetry, but Mazer’s is somewhat flowery and overdone, to my taste.

    • thomasbrady said,

      July 30, 2019 at 11:04 pm

      Thanks, Jim. Mazer “flowery?” Hmmm. Urbane romanticism, perhaps, but I don’t see “flowery.” I suppose “overdone” makes a bit more sense, if Mozart seems overdone to you. It has thick winding passageways; it does tend to load up a line. I can see that.

      • Anonymous said,

        July 30, 2019 at 11:44 pm

        A low ratio of real things going on, of specific observation, lack of local particulars. It’s a bit unfair to judge a poet by passages, but reviewers critics assert and then make their case by passages, and so a little run of lines like these strike me as archaic diction…

        to unspoken urgencies, garrulous desire
        continually fulfilled, the captured stances
        that drift like music in the light-laced night,
        shared words in murmurs soft as downy sky,
        the stars observe with their immortal eye.”

        • thomasbrady said,

          July 31, 2019 at 11:46 pm

          Is diction either modern or archaic? Can’t it be beautiful or surprising? I fear the moderns tend to shy away from diction which does interesting things, because to their ears all skillful use of diction, which to some degree calls attention to itself, sounds “archaic.” The stars observe with their immortal eye” may be iambic pentameter, but the word order is not out of the ordinary; it’s merely saying “x, y, and z, the stars observe with…” The verse music elevates, the thought elevates. Not archaic diction. Agreed, it’s unusual diction. We have beauty, not the archaic.

          • maryangeladouglas said,

            August 4, 2019 at 3:54 pm

            Well spoken, Thomas Graves. The banning of lyricism once again overturned and in a generous way.

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