The Beat poetics seemed different to the other works studied on the module, in the way that they seem to exist solely as a piece of performance poetry. Though the construction exists on a page, the product seems secondary in importance to its performance. It seemed, to me, to be better viewed as a script - Beat poetry was not literature to be read or studied in private, it was a part of the oral tradition.
I always found this an interesting anachronism, a reversion back to the ballads of old which would use poetry as a form, in order to remember long stories and pass down the tales of culture. Beat poets, instead of celebrating societal mythos, used poetry as a vehicle to react against political constraints, social literary expectations of American formalism, and the structured lyric poetry of the New Critics.
However, the measure of the line is still focused on speaking and the breath, with recital being the poet's aim. George Oppen, in his Of Being Numerous called the genre 'Dithyrambic', meaning:
1. a Greek choral song or chant of vehement or wild character and of usually irregular form, originally in honor of Dionysus or Bacchus. (Greek Gods of wine, fertility, and fun times)
2. any poem or other composition having similar characteristics, as an impassioned or exalted theme or irregular form.
3. any wildly enthusiastic speech or writing. *
It is for this reason, perhaps, that Beat poetry has come to be associated with Anti-Establishment art and counter-culturism. Spontaneity was essential, as Jack Kerouac chastised Ginsberg for his overuse of editing. This isn't poetry that has been pondered over forever, but an individual's train of thought. Beat poetry is social poetry, in that the audience are as exalted as the poet. Everyone in the room is an Artist, in the sense that the poetry comes not only in speaking, but in the interaction. People could, perhaps, draw reference to Roland Barthes' The Death Of The Author in this.
As a general rule, the 'Beat Generation' (A term coined by Kerouac) rose to renown in the 1950s, with Cold War threats at their height in America, and an experimentation with drugs and 'free speech' paving the way for the subsequent 'hippie' generation, which took on some elements of the expanding Beat movement.
*(source: dictionary.com [http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/dithyramb] accessed 21/03/11) italicised - mine.
Monday, 21 March 2011
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Berryman Pastiche
The original:
(Go from 4.14)
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
The Pastiche:
The earth, friends, is dying. We must not say so.
After all, the climate changes, the sea ebbs
We ourselves ebb and change
and moreover, my father told me as a girl
(repeatingly) "Ever to profess the planet's extinction
means you have no right to
its resources" I can see now that I have no
claim to its resources, because I am dead.
Life bored me,
The planet bores me, especially its universe
Galilleo bores me, with his facts and theories
as bad as Newton.
Who loves science, and empirical truth, which bores me.
And the heavy winds, & vodka, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
The pastiche was done using Berryman's original poem as a direct frame, as the form seemed too random to mimic creatively and still retain some reference. Instead, my main focus was to play with the ideas and feel of the poem, copying his reduction of grandiose themes to apathy. I found it difficult to mimic the confessional style without giving any of myself away, which is perhaps why it feels empty and hollow, and explains my choice to externalise the subject and focus on the environment rather than the internal. I felt that this poem was too obscure, too random to take anything of his character apart from a feeling of despondency and a self-frustration that entirely opposes the world he is describing, and comes across almost comic in its hyperbolism.
Admittedly, I have no idea what the purpose of the dog is in the poem, and thought it best to leave it as it was rather than trying to attempt to pastiche that as well. It seems to evoke a sense of loneliness, that it is leaving him behind for something of infinite possibility, but I didn’t understand why it was ‘somehow’, as though it was of some unknown but questionable purpose, nor of what relevance its leaving behind of its ‘wag’ is, apart from the fact that he appeared to quite enjoy saying the word in his video.
I found in hindsight that I had not mirrored Berryman's erratic grammatical mistakes, for example 'heavy bored' was replaced with 'died', which was simple and overdramatic but still made sense. I tried to convey the arrogance I felt his original poem to have, that figures such as Achilles are somehow inferior, and that the ‘gripes’ they had are of less consequence than his own. To play on this I used figures such as Galileo and Newton, who are infinitely great men, and yet ‘inferior’ in their dullness (though I don’t actually think this!)
The theme of the poem fits in with the melodramatic nature of the confessional poets. Nearly all of them seemed to kill themselves, and their poems seem to be depressing and maudlin, which is what I tried to parody in my attempt.
(Go from 4.14)
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
The Pastiche:
The earth, friends, is dying. We must not say so.
After all, the climate changes, the sea ebbs
We ourselves ebb and change
and moreover, my father told me as a girl
(repeatingly) "Ever to profess the planet's extinction
means you have no right to
its resources" I can see now that I have no
claim to its resources, because I am dead.
Life bored me,
The planet bores me, especially its universe
Galilleo bores me, with his facts and theories
as bad as Newton.
Who loves science, and empirical truth, which bores me.
And the heavy winds, & vodka, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
The pastiche was done using Berryman's original poem as a direct frame, as the form seemed too random to mimic creatively and still retain some reference. Instead, my main focus was to play with the ideas and feel of the poem, copying his reduction of grandiose themes to apathy. I found it difficult to mimic the confessional style without giving any of myself away, which is perhaps why it feels empty and hollow, and explains my choice to externalise the subject and focus on the environment rather than the internal. I felt that this poem was too obscure, too random to take anything of his character apart from a feeling of despondency and a self-frustration that entirely opposes the world he is describing, and comes across almost comic in its hyperbolism.
Admittedly, I have no idea what the purpose of the dog is in the poem, and thought it best to leave it as it was rather than trying to attempt to pastiche that as well. It seems to evoke a sense of loneliness, that it is leaving him behind for something of infinite possibility, but I didn’t understand why it was ‘somehow’, as though it was of some unknown but questionable purpose, nor of what relevance its leaving behind of its ‘wag’ is, apart from the fact that he appeared to quite enjoy saying the word in his video.
I found in hindsight that I had not mirrored Berryman's erratic grammatical mistakes, for example 'heavy bored' was replaced with 'died', which was simple and overdramatic but still made sense. I tried to convey the arrogance I felt his original poem to have, that figures such as Achilles are somehow inferior, and that the ‘gripes’ they had are of less consequence than his own. To play on this I used figures such as Galileo and Newton, who are infinitely great men, and yet ‘inferior’ in their dullness (though I don’t actually think this!)
The theme of the poem fits in with the melodramatic nature of the confessional poets. Nearly all of them seemed to kill themselves, and their poems seem to be depressing and maudlin, which is what I tried to parody in my attempt.
Confessional Poetry
Confessional poetry seems in essence to be a form of life writing. Exploring the inner individual, the works could be seen as a personal form of therapy, or of an exploration of private experience. One can easily question Confessional Poetry's authenticity, afterall, poetry is a form of Art; Art by definition is artificial, and fine Art is a mastery of making the artifical appear natural. Even if the original experience, the emotions professed, were true, the act of writing them in a constrained form will automatically lend the work an artifice. Poetry, as a construction, will automatically assume a separate voice through the process of its construction. By putting emotion into the public sphere, it separates this captured snapshot of personality from the author, as assumptions of meaning will be overlaid by the reader. *
But, one could argue, is this not the very nature of anything Autobiographical? When we separate the word and explore its etymology, we get three elements:
But, one could argue, is this not the very nature of anything Autobiographical? When we separate the word and explore its etymology, we get three elements:
AUTO BIO GRAPHY
Autos: Meaning 'The Self' in Greek
Bios: Meaning 'Social life' in Greek - As life not in the natural world, but in one confined by social constructions
Graphy: Originating from 'Graphein', the Greek word for writing.
When the word is put together and formed into a genre, it is clear that the subject will be of an individual's written experience of being part of an organised social structure. It will explore the nature of interaction with the external, through internal reflection, into an external form; It is taking in the world, processing the feelings this experience gives you, and putting something that explains them back into the world. In the broadest sense, one could argue that this is the singular criteria all Confessional poetry must meet - a bridge in the gap between the external world and the internal individual.
*There's a really interesting section that looks into this, read 'Versions of the Truth', by following this link http://books.google.co.uk/books?hl=en&lr=&id=NUCytyOEYbAC&oi=fnd&pg=PA263&dq=confessional+poetry&ots=0LwJQG7B9i&sig=h_LwV7jhMq5dpvdb0g2uZ_hrLIk#v=onepage&q=confessional%20poetry&f=false
Cameron, Spurr. Hsc Advanced English. 'Ted Hughes, Birthday Letters' (Pascal Press:2009) p261
Bridging The Gap, With Confessional Poetry
Our lecture today on Confessional poetics brought up the argument that the 'genre' was a reaction to the aesthetics of Modernism; The focus on the 'self' was expunged by Modernism, and yet was embraced wholeheartedly by poets such as Lowell, Sexton, Berryman, and Plath. While, to some extent I agree with the argument - for of course, over time poetry will evolve, and evolution comes from the diversification and adaptation of other ideas from established genres - I feel that it misses what, to me, was a large part of Modernism.
My understanding of Modernism largely came from a direct comparison to its offspring, Postmodernism, which conforms to my statement of poetic development. Whereas Modernism focused on a unity, a grand narrative, an inherent quality shared by humanity, Postmodernism focused on fragments, on disparation, on difference. Confessional poetry, to me, seems to straddle both of these ideas; With a reversion to the Poetic I, it allows a fragmented view of a fragmented individual, simultaneously appealing to that Modernist unity which allows empathy and connection. I spoke in an earlier post of Subjectivity, and the quest to enrich our worldview with the jigsaw pieces of individual identities, and I believe this is what Confessional poetry does. Not every human is the same, and we certainly have not had the same experiences, but an invitation to view the experiences of others, to see their innermost thoughts and feelings, allows us a more comprehensive view of what it is to be human. With any luck, we may not share Plath's pain or father issues, we may not find ourselves in Lowell's marital difficulties, but the knowledge that other people do feel and experience these things gives us a broader scope of the variants in emotion. As I have said before, it is emotion and empathy that connects us, and sometimes it takes a direct form to enable that connection.
My understanding of Modernism largely came from a direct comparison to its offspring, Postmodernism, which conforms to my statement of poetic development. Whereas Modernism focused on a unity, a grand narrative, an inherent quality shared by humanity, Postmodernism focused on fragments, on disparation, on difference. Confessional poetry, to me, seems to straddle both of these ideas; With a reversion to the Poetic I, it allows a fragmented view of a fragmented individual, simultaneously appealing to that Modernist unity which allows empathy and connection. I spoke in an earlier post of Subjectivity, and the quest to enrich our worldview with the jigsaw pieces of individual identities, and I believe this is what Confessional poetry does. Not every human is the same, and we certainly have not had the same experiences, but an invitation to view the experiences of others, to see their innermost thoughts and feelings, allows us a more comprehensive view of what it is to be human. With any luck, we may not share Plath's pain or father issues, we may not find ourselves in Lowell's marital difficulties, but the knowledge that other people do feel and experience these things gives us a broader scope of the variants in emotion. As I have said before, it is emotion and empathy that connects us, and sometimes it takes a direct form to enable that connection.
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