A slice of life, including a romp
with the kids, his wife turning up the heat about who knows what, and the
arrival of The Times Literary Supplement,
direct from London, leading to an assessment of the state of life and
literature, which is what a literary journal is supposed to be about. For the
professional scholar, critic and writer, this arrival throws wife and kids immediately
into the background. “So many thinking & feeling, in so many languages”—it is
truly amazing and overwhelming what literature brings to readers who open their
minds to it. All full of both wonder and
hooey. “Risky & slavish looks the big scene”—slavish in that, as most
writers probably realize at some level, especially those without a reputation yet, if
you’re not up on the fashions you run into walls. Picasso earned the right to
tear the art world—and modern perception of the whole world itself—to shreds
and play blocks with the chunks because when he was young he could draw like an
angel. B. claims that he hides back in his shell at the prospect of all this
complication. Sometime, probably. I think it’s a pose at times. He put it out
there professionally and artistically, broke strange new ground for poetry.
But, it’s almost over, as this poem hints: “Henry his horns waved at the future
of poetry, where he had been”—he had been
in the future of poetry. True enough. Not any longer, that future is in the
past. This was now a guy, who through a lifetime of practice, could write verse
as effortlessly as breathing. Not so much of a poet anymore, though, a much
higher calling. The greatest world-class chess players have to keep themselves
in top physical condition because the work of the brain is such a physical
activity. The muscles and the heart and blood need to be in flawless working
order to support such strenuous effort. The most exhausted I’ve ever been came 1)
after a backpacking trip in the dry, high New Mexico mountains, 2) after
writing the last chapter of my dissertation in a week, and 3) after weekend
chess tournaments in high school—five games over two days. All-consuming,
serious competitive sport, absolutely exhausting. B.’s life has almost exhausted
him. This is competent verse, and there are flashes of language left. But when
he “hid back in his shell-ow”, I think he’s saying he knows he’s not the poet
he used to be. And frankly, not the man he used to be. That in itself is a confessional
statement, though, so the poet is not quite finished. Wringing out the last
trickles of art from a body that’s drying up.
No comments:
Post a Comment