TDR Letter
May 9, 2004
Subject:
Michael
Holmes Interview, etc., on
Carmine Starnino
Dear TDR,
This is wonderfully invigorating. I was so depressed by the fact that I will never be reviewed by the
Globe and Mail that I was almost going to lose my job. Now I'm juiced. I'm jazzed. I've got the mike in my hand, and I am going to splatter it with spit as I ream my poetic adversaries.
Purdy generally bores me. Reading a poem with a gravelly voice doesn't make the poem interesting. God knows, I've tried that trick. Hey, don't hit me like that! But ... and this is a big butt. Purdy made it possible to write simple poems. Until Purdy, other than John Macrae, there were really only stiff poets of the wilderness (Lampman, Pauline Johnson et al) or lofty modernists (Klien, Layton, Mariott, Pratt). I confess a preference for the lofty folks, but I think that's because I grew up in Montreal and hung with the wrong crowd. What's with Purdy's almost religious plainspokenness? Hey, the masters of plainspoken style are Chretien and Bush, two of the most sincere political figures of our time. A little learning is a dangerous thing. A little eloquence is a necessary thing.
Solway has talent but squanders it. Despite my affection for him, he bores me. I think Carmine has talent. He seldom bores me and often infuriates me. Thank-you Carmine. He stimulates the adrenal glands of the poets of the left.
Michael Holmes is my editor; he is therefore the best in all things ... his factual errors were mere attempts to bait you out of your complacenct attitudes toward Canadian poetics, or they were motivated by deep conviction, self interest and a sense of humour. Michael seldom bores me.
I am afraid I don't think Carmine is an ass-clown; that's an unforgiveable neanderthologism. However, we all squat for a time in the shadow of our mentors, like midgets in a tag-team match. And Solway would have to be considered one of Carmine's mentors. God knows what happened to Solway; he's written some pretty neat stuff. Hey, don't hit me like that again or I'll kick your ass! David is Mad Dog Vachon disguised as a greek philosopher, slapping everyone in the ring with a frenzy of erudition, tortuous syntax and impenetrable diction. He may have read too much Aristotle.
This ancient war between the pedant and the iconoclast is one that a great number of poets let pass like peasants in a field watching the invading hordes while quietly harvesting carrots. Beware these, the wise ones, who will not stick their neck out on the Don Valley Expwy. On the other hand, why is it, generally, the boys who are pugnacious? Is the estrogen in the St Lawrence river wonking out our hormones?
A poem that appears to be written with care may be written in haste and intensely boring; a poem that appears to be written in haste may be painstakingly composed and profoundly interesting. If we weren't all in this for the money, I'd say we were screaming adolescent spectators, not fierce warriors of the ring.
Too often, we lack the characteristic nuance of the Canadian sensibility: a warped sense of humour. Mr. McGimpsey, Mr. Ross, we love you, what have you to sing?
Stephen Brockwell
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