A POEM’S LANGUAGE IS—LANGUAGE

Tony Hoagland: A Quietist.  But always starting trouble!

A Tony Hoagland “mic-grabbing” tantrum (?) at AWP Boston in the  name of accessible poetry against obscure, academic, show-off poetry has proven to be a lightning rod on John Gallaher’s blog, which has been moving slowly for months. Peter Campion, an LA Times poetry critic, locked horns with Hoagland on that AWP panel, and made an appearance on Gallaher’s thread.

Matthew Cooperman, a Poetry MFA professor, joined the conversation and recommended an essay on accessibility by Josh Wilkinson (The Volta).  We visited, mentioning the C.Dale Young APR essay on accessibility Scarriet just reviewed.  The following is our take on the piece by Wilkinson, who cleary belongs to the Inaccessible School—which Hoagland railed against at AWP.

Wilkinson begins by taking exception to Times editor Bill Keller’s, “I prefer craft to spontaneity;” for Wilkinson, this is equivalent to “declawing” poetry and putting it in a “‘zoo.”

The trouble with this sort of rhetoric?  It’s trapped in abstract dualities.  The wag can always retort: “Can’t we have craft and spontaneity?”  The wag  beats vague every time, and the colorful “zoo” metaphor is no help. 

But now Wilkinson moves onto a 3-dimensional reality.  The following by Wilkinson is something we can sink our teeth into:

We are told, again and again, that for poetry to be digestible in a broadly appealing way, apparently it must be poetry paired up with something else. For Natasha Tretheway to be invited to Fresh Air, there must be a pitch; poetry beside a familiar topic. “Poetry plus” is what Marjorie Perloff calls this.

For Tretheway, that means poetry plus her biracialness. Which allows Terry Gross to ask, “What does [Obama’s election] mean to you?” For former poets laureate it is poetry plus the homelessness of a brother (Robert Hass) or poetry plus the death of a parent (W.S. Merwin); and really why should this surprise us? It just exploits the fact that poetry can speak to literally anything. And so long as the host sticks to the topics we are safe with (politics, death, family) then we will avoid having to talk about what animates poetry (the language itself, of course).

Nicely said, but when Wilkinson finishes up with “the language itself, of course,” it should give us pause, since language, as we all know, has both a specific and a uniting purpose, whether or not we speak of “biracialness” on one hand, or whatever non-subject Wilkinson has in mind, on the other.  We would love to see an example at this point in Wilkinson’s essay of a non-subject poem, or hear why “language” is barred from any discussion of a poem when it’s “paired up with something else.”  This is not to say a poem’s subject qua subject is not vitally important, but this is not really what Wilkinson is after; he is hunting “the language itself (of course.)”

We’ve heard this a million times: a poem is not what is said, but how it is said—but this does not mean nothing is said. 

Wilkinson, the poem’s language is—language.  Duh. 

The wag wins, again.

Now Wilkinson mentions the popularity of Billy Collins’ “accessibility,” and asks why we have to “diminish” poetry with “access?”

But isn’t this another abstract duality?  Why does Wilkinson assume that access has to equal diminishment?

We know what Wilkinson is saying, of course: Poetry shouldn’t stoop to the less educated reader, etc. 

But again, isn’t this just another truism which hinges on two vaguely opposing things: the educated enough reader versus the not-educated-enough reader?  If we can’t define these terms better, (how do we know when someone is educated enough?) the rhetoric which uses theses terms is empty.

Our readers probably can see now that we are not disagreeing with Wilkinson here; we cannot disagree with Wilkinson—we are merely indicating in a Socratic manner that his rhetoric is inconsequential.

Wilkinson then mentions how much poetry is available on-line through sites like poetry.com and asks,

Do we really believe that there is some drought of poems that we might call “accessible”?

But we fail to understand what this has to do with anything: Wilkinson doesn’t mention a single one of these poems available on-line, or to what extent these poems are “accessible,” or not.  The root question of accessibility still remains.

We then get a phrase, “immediately familiar,” which Wilkinson uses to defend critics Harold Bloom and Charles Bernstein from the “elitist” charge.  Our differences with these critics have nothing to do with whether they are “elitist” or not, but rather with errors in their judgment, but here’s the issue and we are glad Wilkinson used the phrase “immediately familiar” as a way of defending the inaccessible:

All literary works contain parts (words, chapters, stanzas, lines, etc) and no temporal work of art can be “immediately accessible,” and therefore works can be highly complex, even as each individual part is “immediately familiar.”  It might even be asked: if we do have a highly complex work with many parts, why shouldn’t we ask that each part be “immediately familiar,” to facilitate the ease of understanding the complex work, and wouldn’t the more complex work of the demanding genius be understood better if that same genius created each part fitting spectacularly together  “immediately familiar” in its identity as a part as all of those parts fit subtly into the whole?  What could possibly be gained by making the parts, in this instance, not “immediately familiar?”  And if each individual part is not “immediately familiar,” do they really exist as parts—since the poet, by creating something which is complex, is responsible for every part. (And complexity, of course, cannot exist without parts.)

This is kind of what Billy Collins is quoted as saying later in Wilkinson’s essay—and Wilkinson does concede this one (very crucial) point in favor of accessibility to Collins: “accessibility,” says Collins, is a kind of “Trojan Horse,” a “ruse,” in which he, the poet, Collins, leads the reader towards what might be called the complex and the unfamiliar. 

Speaking of parts, Wilkinson now says in his essay that a poem could be defined by “our inability to reduce it,” which makes us think of classical “unity” and New Criticism (a poem cannot be paraphrased) and all sorts of time-honored things, but as true as the whole experience of anything naturally pre-supposes “our inability to reduce it,” (it meaning our experience of it) we should never forget what we have just outlined above—the parts which must exist in anything which partakes of temporality.  And in addition, “inability to reduce” would also pre-suppose something else: clarity, accessibility: since how else could we perceive that threshold of irreducibility?

More in this vein:

Wilkinson quotes Susan Howe asking “why should things please a large audience,” but this is like asking, why should language be understood?  Obviously things don’t have to please a large audience, but what reason can we give for language not being understood, or for a large audience not understanding a thing?

Wilkinson quotes Wittgenstein: a poem is “not used in the language-game of giving information,” but “giving information” has little, or nothing to do with the accessibility of the poem’s temporal existence itself—even as it naturally flies under the radar of “giving information.”

Towards the end of his essay, Wilkinson refers to the well-known Onion piece, “Distressed Nation Turns to Poet Laureate for Solace, as if the Onion were not making fun of contemporary, inaccessible poetry, but was instead making fun of those who want poetry to be accessible; we think the former is closer to the Onion’s intent, and, similarly, Wilkinson wonders what we “lose” in a defensive response “against” inaccessible poetry, but he doesn’t seem to realize that the question could just as easily be asked the other way: what  do we lose in a defensive response for inaccessible poetry?

And so Wilkinson’s essay entertains—like a dog chasing its own tail.

THE HERESY OF THE ACCESSIBLE

Aristotle.  The Greeks: they keep the moderns and post-moderns honest.

C. Dale Young, in a recent article in the American Poetry Review, writes:

We live in a strange time, a time when the word accessible is a dirty word, used mostly to denigrate writers.  We hear it used for other media as well.  A movie is accessible but a film is Art.  That folk melody is accessible but the Mahler piece based on it is difficult, is Art.  I dare say that the word accessible is virtually never used in a positive manner.  But buried in the word accessibility is the root word access, and in our Post-modern life, it appears to me that Art is not supposed to be a means of access but an object to be observed, studied, pondered.  What many seem to admire in Art today, especially in the Literary Arts, is excess whether linguistic or emotional.  But is there good reason for Art to be an access and not just an object?  Is there not a moral imperative lurking behind almost every lasting work of Art?

In this APR essay, “The Veil of Accessibility,” Young close-reads Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, a book he found accessible in high school.  After many subsequent readings, however, Young found the book to be complex, largely because there are two narrators—“the reason Heart of Darkness seems accessible, simple enough to be read by a high school student is the fact that the majority of the novella is not written in the voice of this unnamed narrator but in the voice of Marlowe.”

When Young writes, “the reason Heart of Darkness seems accessible,” we start to wonder if Young’s essay is a true defense of “the accessible.” 

If you say, this door is not really a door, are you defending access?

If objects, or anything we attempt to grasp or objectify, are not really accessible, then perhaps the whole literary issue suffers from bad terminology; neither the espistomological debate nor the aesthetic debate is really about “accessibility” at all—because we’re finally talking about a door within a door within a door…

Young doesn’t treat this; he plows dutifully ahead, turning his attention now to poetry:

Both Frank O’Hara and Kenneth Koch have been praised and lauded, but they have both been equally savaged by critics over time.  Both are considered “accessible,” the term used almost exclusively as a way to say their work is slight.  But is their work slight? 

The obvious follows: O’Hara’s two poems, “Ave Maria” and “Poem” (Lana Turner Has Collapsed!), and Koch’s “One Train May Hide Another,” are found to be poems which only seem accessible, after Young lifts the veil for us.

But isn’t this ass-backwards? If one lifts the veil to reveal inaccessibility?  Isn’t Young guilty of arguing against his stated thesis? 

Young does a very close-reading of O’Hara’s two poems, but one mostly concerned with technical aspects of person and voice.  One might call this a discussion of “access”—or not.  It depends on whether we are talking about a door, or a door-within-a-door.

Despite the length and the ambition of the piece,  Young doesn’t really say anything about these poems that we don’t already know.  He offers a personal anecdote, (one he calls “embarrassing,”) on O’Hara’s Lunch poem, “Ave Maria,” and we have to wonder, finally, does C. Dale Young intend his homosexual anecdote of “Ave Maria,” and his close-readings of these New York School poems to make these poems more “accessible,” or less, especially since he likes these poems and seems to agree that “accessible” is bad?  It’s hard to tell.

Thank goodness Young mentions a classical author so we get a respite from modernist confusion and ambiguity:

 In his Rhetoric, Aristotle discusses the fact that speech can produce persuasion either through the character of the speaker, the emotional state of the listener, or the argument itself.  He goes on to argue that the most potent arguments, the most convincing, are ones in which the speaker presents material in a way that prompts the listener to come to the issue “as if on their own.”  That is, an argument proved indirectly is more effective than an argument proved directly.  If a speaker simply states the view he wants the listener to believe, that view can be too easily ignored by a listener (who does not share the speaker’s view).  This is exactly why Aristotle believed that Poetry (and I would argue to include all of Literature) can be among the most powerful means of making an argument.  

Now we are getting somewhere.  A similar argument is found in Poe: the heresy of the didactic. 

In both Poe and Aristotle we have a rather common sense, psycho-aesthetic argument, one that nicely side-steps the whole impossible issue of “accessible” v. “difficult,” in which Young flounders—even as he writes a very entertaining article.

We don’t want to surrender to a shallow sort of ‘content-only’ reading of “Ave Maria,” but it does makes us wonder how much the meaning of a poem needs to be put on the table when one discusses a topic like “accessibility.”

O’Hara’s “Ave Maria,” which Young quotes in full, would seem to be a celebration of sexual predation, using adolescent boredom and family hatred as a cover, with a little TV and movie metaphor thrown in.  Young seems to imply that this content has a lot to do with the poem’s “accessibility” but has little to do with the poem’s accessibility as a work of art—the latter depending on O’Hara’s artistry and indirection.

To repeat what Young wrote at the beginning of his essay:

In our Post-modern life, it appears to me that Art is not supposed to be a means of access but an object to be observed, studied, pondered.  What many seem to admire in Art today, especially in the Literary Arts, is excess whether linguistic or emotional.  But is there good reason for Art to be an access and not just an object?  Is there not a moral imperative lurking behind almost every lasting work of Art?

Young is linking “a moral” with “access” in art, and perhaps he is correct to do so—though this raises an interesting question: When we speak of “accessibility,” we need to ask the question, “Access to what?”

Would it be merely a low-brow response to greet the moral meaning of “Ave Maria” with moral indignation? 

Is this what happens when accessibility in art gets linked to easy moral judgments?

Young doesn’t touch on this at all, part of the whole ambiguity of his essay’s approach: is Young defining accessibility?  Is he defending it?  Or is he mistreating it, as he claims everyone else does?

When Young writes that “Art is not supposed to be a means of access but an object to be observed, studied, pondered,” is he aware that a pebble is not accessible as part of its nature, while a beautiful palace, as part of its nature, is?

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