THE FIGURE A POEM MAKES!
From: Introduction of
Complete Poems of
* * * * *
BSTRACTION IS AN OLD STORY WITH THE PHILOSOPHERS, BUT IT HAS BEEN LIKE A NEW TOY IN THE
HANDS OF THE ARTISTS OF OUR DAY. WHY CAN’T
WE HAVE ANY ONE QUALITY OF POETRY WE CHOOSE
BY ITSELF? WE CAN HAVE IN THOUGHT. THEN IT WILL GO
HARD IF WE CAN’T IN PRACTICE. OUR LIVES FOR IT.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is
only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore.
Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all
poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, meter are not enough.
We need the help of context—meaning—subject matter.
That is the greatest help towards variety.
ALL THAT CAN BE DONE WITH WORDS IS SOON TOLD.
So also with meters—particularly in our language where there are virtually but two,
strict iambic and loose iambic
The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on meters for all tune. It
is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short
from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic
tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited meter are endless. And we
are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or
unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an
equal claim with sound to being a poem’s better half . If it is a wild tune, it is a
poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving
way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion
to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grass-hopper.
Theme alone can steady us down. Just as the first mystery was how a
poem could have a tune in such a straightness as meter, so the second mystery is
how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be
It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure
a poem makes . It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is
the same as for love. No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static
and stand still ñì one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it
assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and
ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects
and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion. It has
denouement. It has an outcome that though unforeseen was predestined from the
first image of the original mood—and indeed from the very mood. It is but a trick poem and no poem at all if the best of it was thought of first and saved for the
last. It finds its own name as it goes and discovers the best waiting for it in some
final phrase at once wise and sad—the happy-sad blend of the drinking song.
No tears in the writer , no tears in the reader . No surprise for the writer, no
surprise for the reader. For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering
something I didn’t know I knew. I am in a place, in a situation, as if I had materialized from cloud or risen out of the ground. There is a glad recognition of
the long lost and the rest follows . Step by step the wonder of unexpected supply
The impressions most useful to my purpose seem always those I was unaware of
and so made no note of at the time when taken, and the conclusion is come to that
like giants we are always hurling experience ahead of us to pave the future with
against the day when we may want to strike a line of purpose across it for somewhere. The line will have the more charm for not being mechanically straight.
We enjoy the straight crookedness of a good walking stick. Modern instruments of
precision are being used to make things crooked as if by eye and hand in the old
I tell how there may be a better wildness of logic than of inconsequence. But the
logic is backward, in retrospect, after the act. It must be more felt than seen ahead
like prophecy. It must be a revelation, or a series of revelations, as much for the
poet as for the reader. For it to be that there must have been the greatest freedom
of the material to move about in it and to establish relations in it regardless of time and space, previous relation, and everything but affinity. We prate of freedom.
We call our schools free because we are not free to stay away from them till we are
sixteen years of age. I have given up my democratic prejudices and now willingly
set the lower classes free to he completely taken care of by the upper classes.
Political freedom is nothing to me. I bestow it right and left. All I would keep for
myself is the freedom of my material—the condition of body and mind now and
then to summons aptly from the vast chaos of all I have lived through.
Scholars and artists thrown together are often annoyed at the puzzle of where they
differ. Both work from knowledge; but I suspect they differ most importantly in
the way their knowledge is come by. Scholars get theirs with conscientious thoroughness along projected lines of logic; poets theirs cavalierly and as it
happens in and out of books. They stick to nothing deliberately, but let what will
stick to them like burrs where they walk in the fields. No acquirement is on assignment, or even self-assignment. Knowledge of the second kind is much more
available in the wild free ways of wit and art. A schoolboy may be defined as one
who can tell you what he knows in the order in which he learned it. The artist must
value himself as he snatches a thing from some previous order in time and space
into a new order with not so much as a ligature clinging to it of the old place where
it was organic.
More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the
originality it was mistaken for by its young converts. Originality and initiative are
what I ask for my country. For myself the originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have described: from delight to wisdom. The
figure is the same as for love. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride
on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not
be worried into leing. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself
and carried away the poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its
freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning
that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
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