At first I read this as another statement of the Everyman
crushed by a privileged elite. (I suppose I may have a Marxist streak.) The
reference to Sealdah Station, in Calcutta, and the “possessionless / children
survive to die” encourages that reading right off. But “they” hang Henry’s pelt
on the wall—he’s desired, a trophy, so probably this is about a different kind
of possession, about hanging onto or hanging out with persons of celebrity and
fame. Henry, the character, is never going to encounter the kinds of personal
complications that celebrity brings, but Berryman himself did. Prestigious
teaching positions, travel to high profile readings for real money, television
interviews, drinking with the likes of Saul Bellow, Delmore Schwartz, Dylan
Thomas, and other high powered literary personalities. All this came even
before his Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award. The line between Berryman
and his character is so fluid that you have to stay alert to who’s who and when.
I’ve seen the barracudas he mentions, gathered in some art
gallery drinking daiquiris. Daiquiris! This sooo dates the poem! It’s wine or
cosmopolitans or fruity martinis these days, I suppose, although I’m hardly a
barracuda myself nor do I attend their feeding frenzies that often anymore.
I’ve only ever skulked around the edges of a few. The scenes I tend to frequent
these days are hot, humid and green and feature genuine water-breathing bass
and catfish rather than metaphoric barracudas. But I digress.
It’s the issue with fame: the making of image
can take over. That’s sort of the issue with lying too, so there is a similar kind of
ontological intricacy to both concepts, and Berryman mentions them in the same
poem for a good reason. Celebrity is a public mask and while a mask may project
something legit, it can also deceive. Really, you win literary
fame by writing your tail off, and that’s all that’s supposed to matter. There
can be a healthy correspondence between public persona and private substance. Mentally healthy people negotiate that all the time. But if the persona outstrips the
writer, then it all devolves to bunk pretty fast. A book on Hemingway I read
once (don’t remember which one) had a scene where someone points out James
Joyce at a table in a café, alone, and H. thinks immediately that he’s coasting
off the heights of past glory and responds with contempt. I’m allergic to
glamor anyway, but if literary fame should ever come (not holding my breath,
here), I’ll go to the soirées and try to act charming. I think you just write
and questions of truth, image and honesty will take care of themselves if they
ever have to. The only reason I’m taking this on in the first place is because
the poem does. It makes me nervous. So, fine. Celebrity poet. My pelt hasn't grown much gold yet, so nobody's setting traps for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment