TDR Letter
October 17, 2003
Subject: Tom Henihan's
"Poetry Readings - Stand Up and be Counted"
Every now and then, someone publishes an essay in one of the literary
magazines lamenting the decline of poetry these days. Usually, as is the
case with Tom Henihan’s “Poetry Readings—Stand up and be Counted”, the
writer grouses about the number of “so-called” poets, suggesting that the
number of real poets is very few and that the existence of these others
somehow diminishes the achievements of these real poets.
Every time I read one of these essays I’m surprised that people continue to
write them. Not only are they by definition self-serving (the essayist is
implicitly included as one of the “real” poets), but also they are
irrelevant by their own logic. The presumed many who cannot write and
“truly” understand poetry will be insulted while the few who can (those who
have the “gift”) are merely being told what they think they already know.
Moreover, as is the case with Henihan’s, these essays are often stronger on
outrage than on explicit critical principles. Henihan is heavily disparaging
of an unidentified Vancouver poet who “performed the remarkable feat of
reading for forty-five minutes without ever using a metaphor, not even by
accident.” Now, Henihan doesn’t condescend to explain exactly what he means
by “metaphor” so it’s difficult to gauge just how “remarkable” this feat is.
Given the figurative nature of language in general, I don’t think it’s
possible to speak for forty-five minutes on any topic without making use of
some metaphor, no matter how commonplace it may be.
Even if Henihan is using a highly restrictive use of the term “metaphor,”
however, his criticism is not as devastating as he seems to think it is.
Henihan encourages prospective poets to “study literature.” If he took his
own advice, he’d learn that a refusal to use metaphor is not the sign of an
inferior poet, but a distinct aesthetic choice. Wordsworth, for one, was
wary of the distance between an object and its description that was created
by the use of metaphor-heavy “poetic diction.” Throughout the history of
English literature, groups of poets have reacted against the use of
metaphor, attempting to turn poetry back toward “the thing itself.” (Of
course, these poets inevitably did nothing more than create new kinds of
metaphors, but to mention that is to raise the sort of questions that
essayists like Henihan never trouble themselves with.) The absence of
metaphor in their work cannot in itself be used to separate real poets from
fake ones, much as it may disturb Henihan.
And let’s be clear, the separation of “charlatans” from those who are
capable of “real achievement” is what really concerns Henihan here. His
refusal to even give examples of what he considers good or bad poetry
reveals his real true focus, which is not so much on technical or
philosophical issues as on who gets to call him or herself a poet. Henihan
notes that “almost all” poetry is bad. To paraphrase Theodore Sturgeon,
almost all of everything is bad, and the fact that only a few are ever
really good at something seems inarguable to me, but I see very few essays
complaining about all those who dare to call themselves artists or musicians
or filmmakers. Henihan’s argument is just self-aggrandizing elitism, elitism
made even more odious by the fact that it’s based on standards that those
excluded are presumed not to be even capable of understanding.
It’s not that I don’t in some part agree with Henihan. He is absolutely
right to suggest that poetry is wrongfully seen as the art that anyone can
do and to argue that readers and audiences need to be more critical of bad
poetry. It’s when he slides into anti-pedagogical clichés and
quasi-religious blather about the “gift” that he loses me. What people like
Henihan continually fail to realize is that it’s all this talk about the
chosen few and the “gift” that is the cause of a lot of the attitudes he
criticizes, not their solution. If poetry is a craft that can be taught,
then there are standards from which to criticize and with which to improve.
If, on the other hand, it’s a “gift” (given by God or gods?) then no one has
the right to criticize anyone else—each man and women a prophet of his own
religion, everyone a poet.
Like Henihan, I’ve sat listening to a lot of bad poetry, but I must say I
don’t find the people at the podium any more tiresome than the drunken
“real” poets sitting next to me who darkly mutters into their authentic ales
about how bad poetry is these days. I would take a dozen of the mannered
teacherly poets that Henihan denigrates over one of the unselfconsciously
dull crowd who thinks that a litany of hard-living stories and cuss-words
makes for “authentic” poetry. Like these people Henihan is deliriously in
love with the poet as wildman or wildwoman, joyfully drinkin’, dancin’, and
screwin’, while those teachers (failed poets all) explicate poetry that they
don’t really understand. (And, with their “safe” lives, how could they?).
Barbara Fletcher refers to Henihan’s essay as “a brilliant piece of work.”
To quote Henihan himself, “Too often a work is lauded for the sentiment
expressed without any consideration given to its artistic fulfillment,” and
I suspect that this is the case here. Since Henihan encourages honest
criticism, let me say that his writing in this essay is pedestrian. It has
neither the dangerous wildness of the “radical” poets he praises nor the
careful wit of the teaching poets he denigrates. In terms of style, it’s
comfortable, middle-of-the-road, full of tired clichés (“thorn in my side”)
and predictable smugness.
Maybe those lucky few who meet Henihan’s definition of poet could reclaim
that “nunnery in Sooke” that he disparages, where they could read their
poems to each other, unbothered by the swarming multitudes of poet manques,
free to appreciate and criticize poetry whose greatness the rest of us are
too warped by teachers to appreciate. A place where they could dance,
drink, and get laid. I suspect that within days there would be vicious
arguments, when the real “real” poets attempted to expel the posers.
Martin Wallace
Shad Bay, Nova Scotia
|
