Thursday, July 31, 2008

Imagism, Dramatic Monologues ... Presentation, Representation

Las week at Elliot Bay books,I found a cute little book of Imagist poetry in the used section. It was just small enough to fit in my purse making it an excellent purchase. Imagism was a short but extremely influential movement that begin around 1910 and continued (officially) until 1920. Some of the canonical, founding imagists were H.D., Amy Lowell, Flint, Eliot, W.C. Williams, D.H. Lawrence and even Ford Maddox Ford and James Joyce. But through W.C. Williams, Eliot and Pound, imagism carried well past 1920 and influenced a significant part of modern and contemporary poetry (including George Oppen whom I adore and want to study further). The book includes a rather well-written introduction that cites a few key tenants of the Imagists. One of these, codified by F.S. Flint, was "To use no word that does no contribute to the presentation." This little comment caught me. As a philosopher, of course I can't help but stumble on the word "presentation." The Imagists intend this to mean, "the image." But it's not quite clear what "presentation" includes: the sense or reference of the language, the rhythm or texture of the language, or -- more importantly to me at the moment -- a sense of who's speaking. That is to say, does this "presentation" include the re-presentation of the image that the poet wishes to convey? It seems that the Imagists, at least as expressed by Flint and conveyed by the author of the lovely little introduction, thought that their goals was to convey a pure presentation of an image... precisely avoiding drawing attention to the *re*presentation of that image. They do not want to call attention to the speaker or the texture of that language.

Beyond the philosophical concerns that might be considered here (Husserl's notion of intentional fulfillment, for e.g.), I have practical concerns as a poet. READ MORE... It seems that writing in a post, post-modern era, one cannot but help attend to the quality of the representation of an image or cognitive presentation (if it was ever possible not to attend to that and make good art, you now must at least notice when you are ignoring it.) Consider still-life painting, for example. Still lives call attention not to the existence or qualities of fruit or flowers per se, but to the *painting* of fruit and flowers... to how well a painter can re-present them.

In a poem, what is this equivalent of representation? Certainly, it includes the rhythm and texture of the particular words used to represent(or present for the first time) an image. (poets make pets of pretty words, etc.: whether you write, "I haven't seen the ocean but I know what a wave is," or "I never saw the sea,... but I know what a wave must be") But it also includes the speaker of the poem. That is, part of attending to "representation" is attending to how a reader or listener will understand not only what image is being conveyed, but who's conveying it. Not, "was the author G.M. Hopkins or Mos Def" but what is the nature of the implied narrator? Is the speaker the character Medusa or is the speaker the character who speaks in "J.Alfred Prufrock"?

So, for an extreme contrast (perhaps!) to Imagism, consider Robert Browning's, "My Last Duchess." This poems begins innocuously enough,

"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive"

But as it continues, we learn that this speaker isn't just a lonely widow admiring a portrait. He has some rather bitter feelings toward not only its subject (who has some flushed spots on her cheeks in the picture) but the painter of the portrait, Fra Pandolf:

"... I said
Fra Pandolf by design ... [because]
... Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, 'Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flus that dies along her throat;' such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and case enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart ... how shall I say? ... to soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sire, 'twas all one!.."

So... now we know that the Duchess was (according to the speaker) a bit of slut with no standards. And the speaker is quite irritated with her and her painter. But moreover, the speaker himself is a bit coy and insulting. He implies her character in a back-handed sort of way. By the end of the poem, we also learn something about the person to whom he's speaking : the immediate audience for the speech about the Duchess is the relative or servant a count with a daughter that the Duke is planning to now marry.

We certainly can infer all sorts of possibilities about the character of the speaker and his former wife. But as a poet, the real question for me is, what if anything, do we learn about Robert Browning? Is that important? It doesn't really feel very important as I read the poem: I'm only concerned with learning about the characters in the poem, as they are developed, just as I would be with the characters of a novel. Whether I'm reading the Waves or Cavalier and Clay, I'm worrying very little about what the characters tell me about either Virginia Woolf or Michael Chabon. I learn something about life by learning about the characters these authors have represented. (And I learn not only through what is said but how it is said, i.e. both through presentation and representation) But always a speaker or an implied narrator intervenes between myself and the author. I simply don't care too much whether Woolf's book reveals her personal hopes and desires. Certainly in the Browning, there is some indirect revelation but I don't think you can ever follow that indirection back to the person Mr. Robert Browning.

Yet in the confessional/ post-confessional era of poetry, there is a strong demand (from my readers anyway) to know about me. i.e. why aren't my poems more personal? Why don't they express my feelings? I'm sure there are many reasons for the failure of many of my poems.. but in theory --had I written a good poem -- why should the poem tell you anything about me?

But, I suppose if it isn't going to tell you anything about me, then perhaps it needs to tell you something about some other characters. And so perhaps the lesson from all this is that I need to work harder on creating strong characters. (Although even there I resist... why isn't an expression of consciousness or representation of qualities of the world sufficient? But I'll defer that for later...)

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Bittersweet

The theme of the residency this term, from the first to the last was "bittersweet": happy in the sad, pleasure in pain,If it makes you happy why are you so sad,etc? Why can't poets write happy poems? Because usually joy makes you forget to write. Lolita is high contrast -- ecstacy, pain, rape, communion -- but painted in what at first appears to be grey, but on closer inspection, a fine hash of black and white. But not every text is sad: Let's not ignore Christopher Smart and his eternal "Jubliate Agneau"... but he was mad; is it only with madness that joy is urgent enough to express?

I am memorizing this Herbert poem. Notice the activity of God, and the passivity or receptivity of the man... or for the irreligious, for 'God and man,' substitute the 'beloved and the lover.'

Bittersweet
- G. Herbert

Ah, my dear angry Lord,
Since thou does love, yet strike;
Cast down, yet help afford;
Sure I will do the like.

I will complain, yet praise;
I will bewail, approve;
and all my sour-sweet days
I will lament and love.

Saturday, July 05, 2008

I'm back! (In Asheville)

Hello, infrequent but welcome visitors to Mlle. Le Renard. I'm back... and ready to attempt blogging. A year later after some pesky doctoral exams, I'm back in Asheville at the Warren Wilson residency where I'm getting ready to write some poems. I had a fabulous time as a fellow at the Kenyon Review workshop where I worked with the fabulous David Baker who taught me all about formal conceits that I either never learned or forgot. This term I'm working with cheerful but intimidating Alan Shapiro.

This morning kicked off with a great lecture on the development of the manuscripts of Seamus Heaney's "North" in the book of the same name. We looked at how he took an image-based poem, told from the first person into an epic poem that include second person address. Wow. I'm full of images of Ireland and these filtered through the room.

I'm working on some biblical mis-interpretation poems right now, perverse Protestant midrash as I think of them. I find the biblical to be more my "mythology" than the Greek or Latin cast of characters. ... we'll see where this goes with Mr. Shapiro.

And now off to the annual Shindig on the Green in Asheville!