A note on Anthony Conran

A note on Anthony Conran (1931-2013) 


(Later books credited to Tony Conran.) He is such a fluent and brilliant poet, but he can foresee difficulties too cleverly, and the poems lack depth, conflict, self-contradiction, in some way. Does a poem need to have internal tension and twist? I can’t see why. I don’t think I’ve read all his books. I thought the Formal Poems (1960) were unsatisfactory, and Castles (1993) also didn’t work out. But there is also A Gwynedd Symphony (1996). Life Fund (1979) may be the best. It reminds me of Edwin Morgan. It has particular poems that could be anthologised; the “poems for paintings on silk” are good.
Conran has an Irish name and was partly Welsh by “origins”, if we care about those, but he grew up in Wales. Conran published an essay about Welsh civilisation (Anglo-Welsh Review, number 58) which defines it as a separate organism from Western Europe (that is - before the English conquest), and says that modern Wales is a survival of that civilisation. He was perpetually writing about Wales as a figure, an agent, capable of moving and having a biography; his poetry adheres to this as a maximum (he has no interest in Britain or Europe) and a minimum - he is always writing about Wales as a whole, and his poems all cohere in that urgent project. This 1977 essay shows the influence of Toynbee (who described “an Abortive Far Western Christian Civilisation”) on his thought; he acquired his ideas rather early in life, it seems, and Toynbee, Graves, and Buber gave him much of his framework. The Welsh mythical figures he was constantly writing about serve as ideals which show this Far Western Civilisation but are deployed to rebuke Welsh people for failing to live up to them as ideals. The sociological basis for this is weak.
He was a career nationalist, for want of a better word, a full-time one. The story of his poems is therefore the story of the fate of Wales - a great deal of frustration with the language fading year by year, but also a success story as originally ridiculed ideas came to be accepted by a large proportion of the population. His understanding of the nature of Wales grew ever more precise - simultaneously an increasing knowledge of what was going wrong and an intellectual victory. He was acutely aware of the failings of nationalism as doctrine and a logical development would have been into a critic of nationalism. He remained a nationalist true believer. He didn’t see the poems as solutions because the only real problem was how to liberate Wales.
A basic step in his poetry is the evocation of a mythical realm. He was very excited by the heroic narrative of Wales, myths about gods or about historical figures (prior to the loss of independence) projected to super-human scale. An influence on this may have been Graves’ The White Goddess, which takes place on the mythical level. Ken Etheridge’s 1943 book already includes a number of mythical poems about Welsh legends. There were absolutely radical problems with this manner of writing. An improvement was to reduce the vagueness by using a laconic style full of physical details, which after all attacked one of the main problems with the style that was drunk on mythology. So -

In the untrodden light
Come travellers
Pilgrims or refugees.

The young ones
Crowd their balconies
At the next cold
Opportunists
Draggle the heart.

Refugee camp -
Or a quality of light
Drawing us inward…
(“Incomers“)

A problem with the poems is the exclusion of process from the poem by the laconic style and its typically short lines. The lineation is odd - it lacks fluency although its terseness also seems to possess authority. However, it also punctured the exalted and elusive quality of the myths - the primary attraction. Both of these styles were deeply flawed and likely to produce unconvincing poems. However, the contrast between them produced a kind of dialectic. This would produce new combinations all the time and some of these combinations would be good poems, which also had this quality of internal tension - a way of expressing the tension of historical situations, the absence of structure which allows for freedom and for acts of consciousness.
A key thing to explain is how Conran was a fluent writer, who could write hundreds of poems and not be bothered with them later, and also use this anti-fluent, even grudging, style of writing. I liked this poem about Euros Bowen:

A thick tapering trumpet,
A rhizome of bronze
In a dark forge moulded and twisted
In spiralling rounds.

A wide bloom opens for the root -
A crater of red
Like a lake of smouldering molten stone
Erupts from its bed -
(“To ask for a Bugle”, 1969)

Conran issued a book called “formal poems” (1958), which was pretty much juvenilia. A collected poems 1951-67 was published in 1974. There is a standard Anglo-Welsh poem which Conran never wrote at all, being original from the start. He took The White Goddess and developed a notion of poems based on social exchanges - gifts, marriages, etc., which would be raised to ceremonial level by the largesse of poetry. This was also a way of incorporating the pre-modern Welsh poetry, which had very frequently dealt with such moments- albeit in land-owning families. His selected poems of 2006 (The Shape of my Country) eliminate these poems almost entirely. However, some of these poems are picked up and show his later mature style in which events of history are used as a way of commenting on and staging events of the immediate present, that is in Wales. Despite the use of myth, Conran is a serious thinker: his observation of current events is very acute, he is capable of original thought about politics and that is the basis for writing serious poetry about politics. In fact, there is a tension between the information which this acuity feeds back to his brain and the objects of poetry. It is as if that acuity and his long study of events cut a way out of the poetic and nationalist and mythological presuppositions which Conran fastened onto as a teenager or young adult. Conran has done the work of understanding social processes but the payoff is missed because the information is too complex for the design of the poem he is prepared to write. An exit into large forms was strongly indicated for him. This would for most writers also be the signal for the exit from poetry into prose. In fact, Conran was much better as a prose writer, and his essays on Anglo-Welsh poetry are among the most enlightening for the foreigner. I have to say that his laconic statements have the force of truth, they point to a knowledge won by critical thought which he genuinely had won and could draw on. The selected poems (of some 120 pages) are not completely satisfactory as a career survey - it is a cleverly designed and coherent book, but the individual volumes, something over 800 pages in all, tell a more complicated story. (Did I count 800? No, but he wrote a lot of poems.)
‘A meritocracy’ is from a 1960 sequence called ‘Invocation of Angels’:

An aristocracy of intellect
Could come - has come already
In a few displaced souls
From the lost generations.

Like all aristocracies
That of the intellect
Is a matter of breeding.

This has a theme described in his notes: “Iaith (language) rather than gwlad has been the pre-occupation of both the Welsh intelligentsias at least since the 1970s. The result, the short term, has spelt some economic disadvantage for the English monoglot majority (and consequent resentment) because the new, bilingual Wales requires bilingual officers; but its long-term effects are likely to be disastrous for both communities.” The lucidity of the prose (written in 2004) reveals that Conran had done the studying and the thinking. The poem is not exciting because its theme is depressing. He rarely found optimistic subjects in Welsh politics. (Gwlad is the Land.)

“The Sisters” is from 1993:

Both sisters had their courts. Clients gathered,
Friends, conspirators, those with a phrase to offer

Or a kindness, warmth or wildness, way of the world.
The magic of their Welshness was Mediterranean,

Bright as seagulls. Lamplit palazzos
Where the twist and savour of a good story was king.

A taste of Gwales. The singing of Rhiannon’s birds.
The Assembly of the Head these umpteen years.

But in Non’s time, the door swung open, and she knew it.
Her court was at the rainbow’s end,

Time-bound. Men of action, or men hesitant
To act. Women poised in the rigmaroles of doubt.

Time. Time. And the great space beyond. The shuffling
Seas sweeping you out through Aber Henfelin

To the gannet ways, the shark roads beyond Cape Clear.


The introduction of figures from the Mabinogion is typical. (Opening the door brought paradise, on Gwales, to an end.) The style shows how many mediaeval Welsh poems he had read, it is genuinely un-English. Conran was not a Welsh speaker but had a passionate interest in the classical Welsh poetic forms and worked out a way of translating them. The Penguin Book of Welsh Verse (1967) consists wholly of his translations - the best ever, so far as I can see. Gwyn Williams also had that ability.

This note is a back-up to the “shopping list” of books of poetry 1960-97 which did not include a title of Conran’s. Over twenty years I have been pondering, at least intermittently, why I didn’t like his poetry enough and whether I should include one of his books. They were hard to find. Blodeuwedd (1988). All Hallows (1995). What Brings you Here So Late (2008) are three I haven’t read. I will read them, it’s just a question of finding copies.

The triumph of depth of field: Kathleen Nott

The triumph of depth of field: Kathleen Nott


(another forgotten mid-century poet)
Introduction
After completing a work on British poetry 1960-97 I was concerned at the small number of women poets described in it and began, slowly, to read some forgotten women poets of mid-century. I thought it might be possible to recuperate some of them. This is also part of a spare-time project to find any good poetry that was written in the conservative and family-oriented decade of the 1950s. Kathleen Nott is someone I got around to late. (This post partly duplicated in my book 'Fulfilling the Silent Rules')

Poems from the North
Nott (1905-99) seems to have published four books of poetry: Landscapes And Departures (1947), Poems from the North (1956), Creatures and Emblems (1960) and Elegies and Other Poems (1981). The 'north' is Sweden, where she was living at the time (and about which she wrote a travel book). She is missing from just about all the sites (anthologies and histories) which legitimised poets of that time. An exception is one of the British Council pamphlets on poetry. Also, I notice that North was a Poetry Book Society recommendation. I should say at once that the poetry in North is remarkable and the gap in public recognition is painful. This is the main fact in the story.

Look at this:

There are no tall engines standing in the polar North
or none that is ready for use. They are all
sheeted and hooded with the snow: who could discern them
among faceless pines
and blinded fish?
Yet there are things and forms
one would hazard only waiting to be stirred
among this lumber of petrified halls that look
by the light ruined, as if time out of mind
ago, they had lost a valued and antique branching
to this faint modern sky: and these not only
the crashed, spread-eagled and the near-supine
that lie unvisored from the snow.
For though no visible tombs
lie out among the pall'd rocks and no steelmen ever
sprang from old granite, though there has never been
any clangour and the place breeds
nothing but silence, then snow upon the silence
and silence upon the snow, and even the birches
leaped silver from an igneous vein, one can feel how tense
this soundless and Spring-agony might be
to heave, to be wholly altered and removed,
to flutter, though large, and break in through snow
and at last to be seen of eyes, at last, though monstrous or monolithic,
and even though inward darkness be perpetual.
(from 'Absolute Zero')

The most obvious stylistic point dominates the whole passage, that is the length of the continuous blocks of meaning, what I have called metaphorically depth of field: the style demands not only a perceivable object worthy of such intellectual profundity but also a mind with the intensity and detachment and even longing needed to search the perceptible world at such length before breaking off. Every state of thought has an end; where you reach that end is a key to what operations your mind is undertaking. It is therefore a psychological signal, showing the interior of the mind quite clearly; as we enter into the poem we enter into such an interior state, and there we are either happy -or we dislike the poem. Much depends, then, on this depth of visual field – which I find throughout the book.

It is far unlike the momentary glimpses and violent syncopated transition which we associate with modernism (not all modernism). It reminds me of certain poems of Kathleen Raine, where also we find the intellectual intensity is also emotional intensity. Raine's peculiar ideas about the laws governing nature should not distract us from the accuracy of what she says, at many points, about the genesis of form. Nott's poem is not an allegory and to some extent it is exhausted by the depth of its gaze: what we see does not promise another world but, in recompense, it is actually there.

When from a noiseless power of flight,
pinhead, snakeneck, grow single and alight;
from a watch of cold eyes which was taller
than the sun's fire-crawl
upon either port: and on the extinct
grey chimneys of rock, each distinct
meteor startles, with a beating
belly and limp feet, you can hear
over tufts the wind has usurped all year,
shrieks as of winches and cordage.

Or the sea is a waste uncertain age
of volcano fathoms; and the birds flying
sure of their stars, and plying
their ancient trade-routes, carry
year after year their formulary,
dropping on the rocks from the unsealed throat,
what the quick ear has learnt by rote.
What will your vague ear catch? Remote
Bermudas? Paeons or agonies?

Whatever you hear now will be cries
of the salt and pearly dead, by oar
or piston driven once from the shore,
or by the lean-thonged heart within:
the thin-haired women with their thin
tunes, and the bass men black as oaths,
whose love being bitter as hyssop loathes
the kerchief'd hill, the sensual tree,
and seeks the harsh eye of the sea,
and lands as far as time is gone
to tear their churches from dead stone.
(from 'Internecine Love')

(scil. 'paeans') The second half of the book is mainly poems about love and it is not wholly surprising, given the intensity of the gaze shown in the first half, that the object of love turns out to be disappointing, while the intensity of the search gives the poems their emotional reward and a retained promise that emotional intensity is still possible and is the goal to which our faculties are attuned. The development of 'Internecine Love' is not completely clear to me, but the northern sea of the quoted stanzas seems to be a kind of exterior equivalent for a love that did not sustain itself under tests:

Offence of nature and of place
powered these hulks with love and grace
and you in lapping peace will read
what shook these ribs was love indeed [.]

Repeatedly we read of acts of hearing, but none of them seems to be the desired sound; we are left to guess what that is – the music of amorous harmony perhaps. The sea sounds like the North Atlantic, in high latitudes, perhaps between Faeroes and Iceland; but is perhaps not a literal place. It is there as the medium for a journey which is mainly a journey through time. It is there to supply depth of field. 'Pinhead and snakeneck' describes a sea-bird; perhaps it starts as a pinhead, when far away, and increases in apparent size as it descends towards the observer. The chimneys of rock are known in Gaelic as stacs and are offshore islands, such as St Kilda, guarded by high cliffs which are perfect nesting-places for sea-birds. The meteors are birds, again.

One poem, 'Manichee's Black Mass', is unlike the others. It is a political satire on social attitudes towards being Black, racially, equated with a Manichaean view of the world which divides it into light and darkness. It is a remarkable poem. The writer is not consistently interested in unintelligent people and illogical views. The book could not be about them. The book as a whole is a celebration of the intelligence and requires large measures of truth as the air which intelligence must breathe.

The poems are like great waves which have a long fetch, starting far out in the ocean and taking their time; this implies the delay of gratification, or rather succeeds by the depth of involvement and the steadiness of focus which we participate in as we follow the wave onto shore. One of the poems quotes Ugo Foscolo and it may be that the method of constructing very long verse paragraphs was influenced by his example in Le Grazie and Dei sepolcri. Gratification is not an obvious feature of the style. We have to dwell on this briefly because around this point we have to consider how necessary the recuperation of this poetry is. It does not have an aesthetic on the same high level as its intellectual commitment. Its austerity, its lack of simplistic enjoyment of pleasures of love and the countryside, will remind us of other poetry of the 1950s – also out of favour as I write. This poetry does not strive to create a linguistic world; it is not self-serving and does not obviously reach its self-set goals. It is a search for truth, as much in the desolate landscapes of rural Sweden as in the emotional passage of arms between two people, representing each other as accurately as the ego allows. (Nott's marriage ended around this point.) The depth of focus is the reward, at the same time that it takes on so much truth that it drowns elementary emotional states and hopes.

There is a Wikipedia article on Nott and as this points out she wrote a book (1953) attacking the relapse into religion of various modern writers as a betrayal of the demands of the intellect. T.S. Eliot was prominently featured in this. While it is hardly possible to disagree with Nott about Eliot's relapse into monarchism and Anglo-Catholicism, attacking Eliot in the England of the 1950s was a kind of literary suicide, and this on its own possibly explains why her name does not feature in the sites of consecration (for example Penguin anthologies by Allott or Lucie-Smith). The 1950s audience was more likely to feel itself the subject of her attack; it was not composed of intellectuals and had a high percentage of people who were believing Christians (Anglo-Catholic or not). They may have respected her but she made them feel uncomfortable.

The approach by which the search for philosophical truth is also a search for emotional commitment and so a path towards personal happiness has an affinity with the approach of Denise Riley. Well, you couldn’t be D Riley in 1956. It was not part of the dispensation. But the comparison may serve to situate Nott. The intellectual intensity is also emotional intensity and the attempt to find and shed illusion is the process which writes the poem. Again, you can see that this would make some people feel uncomfortable.

Part 2
By this time two more of her books have arrived, after Internet shopping (so there is still one I haven't read). (which actually is just a pamphlet)

The cover of North has a quote from J-P Sartre saying that Nott is the only English Existentialist. I find this suspect (I mean, because it makes her importance conditional on being a reflection of the central luminary which is Sartre Himself) but it helps to locate the way in which the publisher felt she could be presented to an audience, and partly also the kind of intellectual who was available in England, in 1956, willing to buy a book which was not Christian, pastoral, or nostalgic. The jacket also says “The verse is less experimental and shows signs of settling into a basic rhythm.” How depressing! The publisher is saying, this is dangerous stuff but it is getting less threatening with time and you can allow it in the house. That is how literary matters work while the Conservative Party is winning a series of elections! The association with Poetry London, which published her first book, may have been a problem; the sleeve of North apologises, twice, for the kind of poem that had appeared in that one. It was Landscapes and Departures, of 1947, and it is not New Romanticism. It really has very little to do with the Forties scene. Nott is a distinctive writer, all the way. It includes the poem ‘The Grass’, 700 lines literally about the species grass (or group of species). This is really a challenge. As a combination of subject matter, length, and the density and precision of style, it is really unlike anything else. We would have to invent a new category at this point. Her way of arguing in verse reminds me slightly of Peter Yates – another Forties poet who, on examination, has nothing in common with the style of the time. Perhaps Spender is a better comparison.

While I think Landscapes is highly finished intellectually, the expressivity is less sure. North is much better as well as being closer to a norm. It is more personal and emotional than the other two books. In Landscapes it is noticeable that the writer is an intellectual, the movement of thought is always of high quality and there are no weak or blurred passages. There is a lingering flavour of social relevance - someone looking at ruined Europe and wondering how bad Mankind can make a good place - but that was not an especially original attitude in 1947 and Nott has mostly developed far on from that, so that the poems do not play a familiar music. One theme of ‘The Grass’ may be that the natural world is going to recover from the war, and sites of devastation will become covered with vegetation before too long. But it also tells a story, in which grass only plays a role. In Landscapes the poet gets completely carried away, and the poems are also more difficult than the ones in North.

I identified the “depth of field” as key to North before I had seen the other two books. Creatures just has less depth of field, it is not really a distinctive feature. ‘The Grass’ at 700 lines has even more depth of field. I am going to quote one poem from Landscapes at length.

The Bat

I weave my world,
by faultless repertory of my votive dances,
weaving my silence with the shine
here where the moon entrances
the sheeted water and dark sheer of larches,
and dive indifferent arches
(after my fleeting guessed
identity) which scallop
night in water at this meeting-place this
frontier of the stone-old with the leaning-green
of soft perennial Spring, the mask-white tryst of
four eternal
swimming-in-moonlight, wild-with-water laughing faces.

And mad with their vicarious love, I soar
to feel the moon with sharpest songs,
like a mad rag-bag lark, and I adore
this world that I have made and locked in mirrors.
and I review the regular glades,
the slender columns
grey, with mist moonlit spray and ebony fountains of the beeches,
and from my height
(flight is my vanity and I shall stoop
to read myself anew purblind in helpless waters)
choose the enchanted kind, the daughters
exalted with their moonfed love whose feet
are lost in trance of grass -
to blow their mouths with hair like filthy wind.

Because this world of yours
I ward, plucking the true one with my delicate monstrous fingers,
and whosoever lingers
on in your vale of bone and stone,
who since with dull and ageing ears,
he hears or thinks he hears
my high cries wince,
will dub me outcast.
But he forgets
that in the carrion world
I am the nightingale,
and how the soft world rots into my dyes,
and he forgets the world of summer singers,
burden of the hot heap,
who by the fragile network of their tiny cries
and all the diaphane of stale,
suckle my maw until the consummation of my winter sleep,
and feed my sacred and invisible art: my art
to build the true, the soft and shadowy counterpart
in death, of this most brimming world.
Ah, springtide of love and mutual
cyclopean spell of moon and ocean,
I mount you, drink you like a potion
strengthening me as I hover, shadowing,
a mock and dingy kestrel,
over the eternal ghosts of youth, the hosts
of pearls of passionate beauty,
 faces, the mirrors of ecstasy of love.

Ah, white entrancement,
up, up,
by silent and devoted dances,
I raise my joy as in a cup,
fed through translucent veins with silver blood
and airy wine, a power
from the curved, tense, divine and shining
nocturne I need, and purpose to destroy,
being loyal to death which lies
in the sprung quicksilver of the broken blood
all over the earth, and in the crass flat eyes
of phosphorescent heads, the sea-weed
severed, clinging the shore-mud
I savour, breath
of sweetest, being most helpless, death:
and then the new
hue and perfume of my secret and
still growing flower of flower of
superdecay of green -
my pride and art, for still unfelt, unseen
my world within your world
grows like an immanence of slime
in cracks of time and space.
and I who feast
my solitary love,
am priest
of all your dying, all the pure
sacrifice, deaths which lean
meaningless across your globe-face; autumn
passion of the clinging vine;
shadow and thirst in the sands;
shadow of the signpost pointing
pointlessly. Larvae of fume of blood
desert your empty deaths, weave with my moonlight,
leaving
the outline of your fleshly ghosts,
for a faint heaven within this tapestry of mine.
And I pure spirit of bird
have eaten my flesh to rusty mourning,
disguise to suit
my satiate retirement,
if soon the season and the moon are late
and I decline longthoughted
and shuffle boughs to grow fur-fruit,
and space is shadow and time slow
and moonlight thickens into snow,
and I withdraw huge and naked ears into my sleep,
and in vast vacancies closely cluster,
lacklustre, rustling dry,
to hang head downward,
perfected mirror of myself,
over the snow or sky.


It is night. The moon is shining. A bat is flying above a lake in some park landscape of trees and columns. In the lake, which possibly has stone banks, four lovers are swimming. They are entranced, by each other. It is a romantic landscape in the taste of the 1940s. “Because this world of yours
I ward, plucking the true one with my delicate monstrous fingers,”
: the bat protects the enchanted world in which the four lovers are living as if no other existed. The bat has affinities with death (presumably taken from Gothic poems in the manner of Edward Young about graveyards, ghosts, ruins, and bats). “Blow their mouths“: the bat goes so close to their mouths that the air from its wings blows against the mouths.
“my art
to build the true, the soft and shadowy counterpart
in death, of this most brimming world.” : the bat has some creative power and with it creates a counter-world, ruled by death. The bat here is an artist counterpart, perhaps its extreme sensitivity to sound is like the sensitivity of the poet. A poem a few pages earlier in Landscapes begins with the line ”I am a poet with a special duty towards death”, and the bat could also make this claim.
“and he forgets the world of summer singers,”: these are insects, on whom the bat lives, catching them in flight.
“from the curved, tense, divine and shining
nocturne I need, and purpose to destroy,”: here the bat is speaking again of the ‘nocturne’, the beautiful scene, of the night swimmers in the lake. He purposes to destroy it: attracted to love, he yet is borne up by some counter-principle. The scene is fragile, with its pure and transient feelings; we do not hear how it will end, but some ominous spirit is hovering over it. It is there by enchantment.

“cyclopean spell of moon and ocean“: the setting is cyclopean because it has one eye, that is the moon, the origin of tides.
“in the sprung quicksilver of the broken blood
all over the earth, and in the crass flat eyes
Of phosphorescent heads, the sea-weed
Severed, “:
the bat evokes the whole realm of death, at its strongest in the mid-1940s. The heads are those of the drowned, from sunken ships, shining with the light of marine organisms (bioluminescent dinoflagellates, commonly) which cling and shine. The poem may go back to 1944 or 1945; the earth is really covered in broken blood. Its ‘quicksilver’ mirrors the phosphorescence. “am priest
of all your dying”: the bat is now part of a religion of death. There is perhaps an echo of Foscolo’s “Dei sepolcri” here.
“and I decline longthoughted“: the bat, an animal again, slows down, its thoughts take a long time; hibernation is near.
“and shuffle boughs to grow fur-fruit,” it walks along tree-branches and there grows thicker fur.
“autumn
passion of the clinging vine;”: this is presumably just “the vintage”, a thing which happens to grapes in autumn.
“choose the enchanted kind, the daughters
exalted with their moonfed love whose feet
are lost in trance of grass -
to blow their mouths with hair like filthy wind.”: if we re-read this in the light of later parts of the poem, it seems that the “choosing” means “marking for destruction”. The bat wants the most exalted and passionate women to populate his counter-world. The “choosing” is like an angel of death or a Valkyrie. The mention of hibernation may be a hint that the war is coming to an end, that the appetite for destruction is becoming satiated.

I think this should be the one which represents Nott in anthologies. I have just been writing about Kevin Nolan’s poem about being a bat, some 60 years later. Is there a connection? I would like to think there is an overlap of some kind, one worth diving into the texture of the poems and hypothesising about.

The back jacket of Creatures and Emblems (1960) lists three other books coming out at around the same time - by John Holloway, Peter Redgrove, and Margaret Avison. The description of the Avison book sounds interesting - I think she was Canadian, so that may be why she did not appear in the discourse around and over British poetry. I have not read that volume of John Holloway, but he belonged to the “Formalist” tendency as defined by Eric Homberger. Rather later, he wrote The Landfallers, a good example of Formalist verse, rhyming throughout. Redgrove is the one who really had a career. Nott’s 1960 book clearly belongs within the Formalist category. I must say that it is a disappointment to read after Poems from The North. It is closer to the norms of the era than North, less demanding and less arresting. Nonetheless it includes some imposing poems. The “creatures” part refers to some poems about animals - for example a long poem about the arrested sacrifice of Abraham told from the point of view of the ram, and one called “Lemmings”, which is about a self-destructive tendency, remaining mysterious but compared at one point to the behaviour of lemmings. (The behaviour is not in fact based on a wish to die, but on avoidance action - during periodic population booms, grassland becomes covered with lemmings, who naturally swerve to avoid each other - sometimes swerving over a cliff.) I am unsure about the emblems. Homberger does not give dates for the reign of Formalism, but describes three first volumes published between 1947 and 1957 as typical of it. Obliquely, he suggests that a first volume published in 1961 was a bit late for the style. Those poets who made their debuts in that time may have continued to use the style for the rest of their lives, of course. “Formalism emerged as the 'cause’, one might say, of poets born in the 1920s.” (The New Romantics were, rather often, the age group born between 1910 and 1920.) If we look at “The Bat”, Nott is preoccupied with the rhymes, throughout, although the line length is freely variable. There are some tricky sound echoes: solemn with columns, seaweed with severed. The combination of rhyme and serious argument is what was about to be the sound of the 1950s.

Existentialism plus Formalism – that does sound like the 1950s of the textbooks. Poems from the North might call for a recount on that era – it is surely one of the best books of the decade. I think the abiding fact is the English poetry market having a dread of intellectuals. The process of becoming an intellectual gives you access to an intractably large range of possibilities – as this would suggest, a hundred people going through that process do not emerge in the same small room. They are free, it is true to say. Perhaps trying to find each other. So although Nott was an intellectual, although that is true of some other poets, Nott is not in proximity to those others. Charles Madge might be a useful comparison.

Was she excluded for being a woman? It would not seem so. Other women poets of the time fulfilled conservative wishes and lost popularity as time passed because they shunned modernity. Nott took a completely different view. The Poetry Book Society chose four books a year, which members received free as part of their subscription. There were also “recommendations”. The implication is that there were four new books, in 1956, better than Kathleen Nott's. I am sure that wasn’t true. However, consider this. In 1950 TS Eliot founds the PBS. In 1953 Kathleen Nott publishes a book attacking T.S. Eliot and other Christian literati such as Dorothy L. Sayers and Graham Greene. In 1956 the PBS selects her book as one that all members will receive a copy of... no, that couldn't happen.

I don't have the knowledge to write a definitive judgement on Kathleen Nott. I can say at this stage that I expect someone will do a Collected Poems and that sometime after that we will have a collective reaction to Nott which will be the basis for a critical judgement.

history of the avant-garde in Austria and Germany

Ute and Ulf
Two essays about the history of the avant-garde in Austria and Germany (mainly).


Austrian poetry

(letter from Ute Eisinger circa 2003)

As a presupposition for this, let me say that the poets of Germany after 1945 no longer interest me and so I can hardly say anything about them, but in compensation I will say more about the Austrians.

The best accounts of Austrian literature since the war are in Peter Demetz, who teaches germanistics in California - everything should have appeared in English. For poetry, I recommend Hermann Korte’s contribution, Über Lyrik nach 1945, in the latest volume of the Reclam Geschichte der deutschen Lyrik, in which Kling, Czernin and all our favourites are well presented. If you want, I will send you a copy.

Ingeborg BACHMANN is overrated - an achievement of the women’s movement and of glossy magazines, which have stylized her into a Romy Schneider of literature. Her best poetry is indebted to Celan. She was certainly a dazzling philosopher (Heideggerian). CELAN is in any case in any respects unsurpassed, if also psychologically damaged. He saved something for the soul of lyric poetry - not because he was a Jew, but because he came from the East and drew from the same sources as the inventors of surrealism. During the single year, for which Celan held out in the previously aspired-to Vienna - he arrived in 1946, in a bombed-out, exhausted, hungry city - he only felt at home in the circle of fantastic painters. More than with BACHMANN, who adored him, he would probably have found elements in common with our underrated poet Christine LAVANT, who lived in impoverished circumstances in a Carinthian village and taught herself -as he did initially - from Rilke. Her poems - in reality prayers - belong to an alienatingly archaic Expressionism, as it is found more often in Czech or Rumanian poetry, in Siktanc, Stanescu, etc.

Then came the year of Gruppe 47, which in literary terms means the first “Anschluss” of Austria to West Germany: the only ones who travelled to their meetings from here were Bachmann and Aichinger, who were also the only women. Celan travelled there from Paris, where he had settled. Aichinger got married to Günter Eich, Bachmann was awarded the prize which Celan had deserved.

In the 1950s Vienna had come back to life. In a jazz cellar club named “der Strohkoffer”, painters met, whom the priest Monsignore Dr Otto Mauer exhibited in his gallery “Galeria nächst St Stefan”, and let them have discussions there too. That is the background from which the slightly older - he took part in the war - H.C. ARTMANN stood out. The so-called Wiener Gruppe [Vienna Group] is more an invention of the lamented, self-indulgent, Gerhard RÜHM. Artmann himself didn’t want to found anything, he was simply a splendid human being with a scholar’s attitude to life, unerring in his erudition and appearing in all kinds of masks, like Ezra Pound - but never with didactic gestures, always with a twinkle in his eye, lively. Vienna has been rich in theatrical gestures since the Baroque and Artmann’s gesture pointed once again to the grotesque, the Dance of the Dead procession from the legacy of ‘dear Augustin’.

For JANDL and MAYRÖCKER (and by the way it was she who educated KLING, a rather un-German bard) the ludic was decisive, the performable sound. All three are by now found in all anthologies. Very important - for Schmatz and Czernin, but also for the Swiss Ingold among others - was in the 1970s Reinhard PRIESSNITZ, who was a drinking companion of Artmann (who wasn’t?), and whose disciple Schmatz was in turn. Priessnitz’s legacy includes more essays than poems. No-one who wants to approach Schmatz and Czernin can bypass his systematic-theoretical essays.

The so-called Experimentals (SCHMATZ, CZERNIN and others) have had a hard time in recent years. Only Schmatz is on the path to success. One reproaches Franz Josef, primarily, because his writing has allegedly reached the cul-de-sac of self-observation - while Schmatz allows himself to write with increasing sensuousness, no longer raps himself on the knuckles when a tune begins to emerge. With “babel’n” he is for the first time dealing with what belongs to an outside world, instead of exploring what he has just invented. “tokyo, echo”, which has just come out, follows the same line. Whom both love: the Munich poet Paul WÜHR.

In the big picture, something is missing in contemporary Austria: the only thing which we have done for the world since the Second World War is Actionism, which was theorised by the Experimentals. The great talents of the Austrians are however found in the musical-theatrical, ludic, style. Because we suffer from an inferiority complex in comparison with the Germans, they are lying fallow. Austrian literature was always strongly involved with linguistic philosophy (Wittgenstein, Mauthner, Ebner; Kraus) and so must fail when it is inspired by beer and becomes ideologically earnest.

If I put myself into the picture… From the start I have only written about writing, above all about reading. I never shared the theoretical demands of the Experimentals (to analyse democratically, psychologically, system-theoretically), but hold more by a mediaeval code of honour of poet-apprentices, which prescribes that one should prove worthy of one’s master. It is said of me that I write like a man. But I regard myself as very heathen and this in turn as something very feminine. (Art is the working-through of flashes of inspiration as well as the knowledge of how one comes to the former - i.e. in this case highly erotically. Women perhaps do not write in a different way from men but procure other Muses. As I always felt close to the danger of losing the thread in sheer rhythm, I impose strict formal rules on myself.

Richard OBERMAYR writes prose - but it is like a quarry for poets. Recently I heard him as he was instructed to react in the framework of a literary project to an unfamiliar composition by Handel? Haydn? - and carried out this task quite breathtakingly. Not only that Richard thinks musically, above all his images are of an unheard-of accuracy and with that so completely freshly coined, that one can only wonder at them.

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(There is some reference to a 1992 web essay by AD which had very few Austrian poets, no doubt a consequence of using a London library funded by the Federal Republic. Quite a few of these poets are found translated in the 2001 Chicago Review anthology, Contemporary German Writing. The Cambridge Conference of Contemporary Poetry brought over Schmatz, Czernin, and Kling. AD translated all three. There are some translations of Ute Eisinger in the anthology 16 New German Poets [Burning Deck, 2008]. AD)


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Ulf Stolterfoht
This is a general description of the position of the avant-garde in German-language poetry, written about 2007.

Once again: about avant-garde and experimental poetry



(1)

When one began, at the end of the seventies, beginning of the eighties, to take an interest in poems whose authors felt themselves in some way bound to the concept of Experiment, one was in a peculiar situation - stamp-collectors call something like this, I believe, a closed collection area. To be sure, access to the key texts of the German- and French-language avant gardes was, as was not true for the two previous generations, a big problem - a medium-solvent university library, an ambitious borough library was then often better equipped to satisfy the most urgent longings - only the common evaluation of this form of literature had altered radically. The concept avant garde had been declared obsolete by the culture sections of newspapers and by mainstream theory, and bid farewell to with a sigh of relief, it had from the start played no great role for the younger poets of the “new subjectivity” or even served, along with “elitism”, to fill out their image of The Enemy, and so it was only the poets born in the twenties: Friederike Mayröcker, H.C. Artmann, Helmut Heissenbüttel, Ernst Jandl, Oskar Pastior, and a few others, who kept the colours high and kept the “collection area” a chink open. With which naturally also a reception problem is named - much was then hard for me to understand or even not perceptible: in what way Elke Erb and Adolf Endler were whirling around in East Berlin, what sensations Günter Falk in Graz and Reinhard Priessnitz or Dominik Steiger in Vienna were furnishing, not to mention that the first volumes of Franz Josef Czernin and Ferdinand Schmatz appeared in these years - in Stuttgart the clocks moved a bit more slowly.

However that may be - it seemed to me, anyway, as if I had discovered something, which at the latest in the moment of being discovered by me had become part of history - or at least was declared to be so. Which meant, that also my own efforts towards poems, still mostly unpolished by avant garde theory and practice, but somehow aiming in this direction, probably were not right up to date. No catastrophe, but all the same a persistent irritation, which continue until, much too late, I read Heissenbüttel’s magnificent volume of essays On the tradition of modernity (Zur Tradition der Moderne), and realised that the skirmishes around the concept of avant garde did not centre in literature and its possibilities of development, but in positioning and the control of opinion - power struggles on a very small pitch. Heissenbüttel now showed impressively that the history of the avant garde did not begin with Marinetti and Mayakovsky, with Ball and Schwitters, but at latest with Fischart and Kuhlmann, and did not end with concrete poetry - rather the situation is (Heissenbüttel‘s theses can perhaps be reduced to this denominator), that we are dealing with an unfinished, unfinishable process, and that there is no going back behind the achievements of the avant-garde, which applies equally to those who despise it and those who proselytise for it.

So things had been tugged into position again, just that Heissenbüttel’s realisations did not seem to have reached the young poetry-scene, at least there was no trace of them to be found in the relevant anthologies and annuals. But then, in the middle of the barren eighties, occurred with a flourish on the drums the “Pentecostal miracle of German-language poetry” (Tobias Lehmkuhl): within a very brief space of time appeared the first volumes by Peter Waterhouse, Thomas Kling, Bert Papenfuss, and many, many others. The scene showed up as completely changed from one day to the next, and it became obvious to me that there really were people who had taken up the same problems in the foregoing years that I had, just that they had got significantly further with their work. Another revolution, then, which didn’t wait for me.

When the poets born between the beginning and the middle of the sixties published their first books, the situation was changed again. The lyrical Pentecost had not been able to hold back the progressive marginalisation of the genre, which had as a consequence a stronger solidarity between poets, also across ideological boundaries. So the course of the front lines remained clearly visible, but it became possible to discuss the differing ontological principles and to respect them. Heissenbüttel’s theses had finally fallen on fertile ground, as just as it had been unthinkable to follow an experimental opening without being informed about (for example) Peter Huchel and Paul Celan, so it had also become something that went without saying for a representative of a more narratively oriented poetry to have read Konrad Bayer or Oswald Wiener. Isn’t that progress?

This process has continued, if my views are correct, among poets born around 1970 and later, and has got stronger. Perhaps the literary balance of powers has changed - the newer North American poetry with Charles Simic and John Ashbery now certainly plays a larger role than the old tussles of the avant garde, still it would be hard to find a younger poet who would not name Thomas Kling’s poems as an important influence. This has as a consequence that today really bad poems are hardly being written - the knowledge of tradition protects against that - and beyond that an incredible variety of stylistic projects has developed, which permits groups, but prevents schools. And so among the younger poets there are only a few who would describe their writing as experimental.

If I now try to show, in what follows, why it seems sensible to me, all the same and continuingly, to stick with the concepts of the avant garde, of experimental writing, that it certainly not so as to excavate happily filled-in trenches - quite the opposite, I find the present, un-angry situation extremely helpful, and would be glad and grateful if it lasts until my farewell to poetry. On the other hand I am convinced, now as before, that what poems can achieve depends substantially on what theoretical or ontological measures underly them, and that, to put it mildly, different concepts have different carrying powers. Diverse is good.

(2)


But perhaps to start out we have to go back to the origin of all the misery, to Hans Magnus Enzensberger’s essay, “The Aporias of the Avant Garde”, of 1962. This essay has a great defect, namely that not everything which Enzensberger claims in it can be rejected out of hand- more of this later; the predominant part of his argument is, though, highly problematical or straightforwardly tactical nonsense, written although the writer knows better. That begins with Enzensberger seeing the avant garde essentially as a sociologically relevant phenomenon, which in the competition of aesthetic ideologies has won a larger share than he would like. Now, polemics do not have to be empirically provable in order to function - but the assertion that avant garde art, especially literature, was over-represented in the marketplace, was in 1962 just as absurd as it would be in 2007. All the same this error of judgment has enjoyed a long life and has a wide distribution now as then, of course rarely among people with the intellectual capacity of H.M. Enzensberger. Just here is the second problem of the essay: who argues in the way that Enzensberger does must not only reckon with applause from the wrong side - that was his goal. Give him the obligatory derivation of the term “avant garde” from military vocabulary as a free gift, give him the playing off of Lenin’s avant garde metaphor against the Futurist one as a free gift, give him also a free gift (even if this one grates rather) the equation of “Neues Deutschland” with “Völkischer Beobachter” - but don’t let him get away with, of course, never, the criticism of Lukacs’ admittedly bizarre concept of realism as being linguistically “tattered and rotten“! If you don‘t believe me, you can check the reference for 9 euros 90 - “The Aporias of the Avant garde” are available again, that is in: Hans Magnus Enzensberger, Einzelheiten I & II (Spiegel-Edition, Band 24. Hamburg: 2007). And this essay has even more to offer: from the surprising enthronement of Jack Kerouac as the “paramount chief of the Beatnik sect“, which Enzensberger takes to be the experimental division for North America - very witty! to the cutting and contemptuous: “A lab coat clads the breast twitching with visionary raptures; and what the avant garde produces, be it poems, novels, pictures, films, buildings or pieces of music, is and remains experimental.” Yo! you have to read it to believe it!

If I have indicated above that not everything is wrong with Enzensberger’s assault on everyone in the room, that refers mainly to two points:
First: the unenjoyable avant garde gesture of exclusivity: Like this, and only like this! Enzensberger: “Someone is already wrong when they insist on objective necessity, material compulsion, and inevitably progressing development. Every such doctrine relies on the method of extrapolation: it protracts lines into the unknown.”
And secondly: the problem of freedom by decree.
Enzensberger: “Just like communism in society (!), the avant garde wishes to impose freedom in the arts by decree. Just like the Party, it believes that, as a revolutionary elite, and that means as a collective, it has taken out a lease on the future. […] It proclaims total freedom as its goal while surrendering without resistance to the historic process which is going to release it from this freedom.”

These are really, and not just for Hans Magnus Enzensberger, two self-contradictions, whose consequences were that even today many older authors, whose work is undoubtedly to be grouped with the avant garde tradition, have very deep suspicions about claiming the term for their writing. These contradictions (which in reality are only one) seem to be resolvable only by finally taking the demand for and the promise of freedom seriously - it does not have to be instantly “total freedom“! The unpleasantly authoritarian tone which clung to many manifestoes of the Fifties and Sixties and which persists to this day in the pure theory of the experimental, is psychologically understandable (I think) as the defensive reaction of a minority pressed against the wall: against the prevailing malicious whispers and intrusive interpretation of the 1950s, against the “anything goes” of today - but it does not become more sympathetic for that reason. And if an opening both of concepts and of method should lead to a dilution - excuse me! Renate Kühn writes in her never sufficiently to be praised work of interpretation, Der poetische Imperativ (Aisthesis: 1997, 3rd edition 2020): “That such an open definition is appropriate was shown by further developments. Since the Seventies, the shifting of the experimental field in favour of “contents” has led to an increasing differentiation, which breaks with the taboos of the first phase and by doing that reaches a grade of textual complexity which is in noticeable contrast to the reductions of the first phase.”
And: “As an end result remains therefore only that new attempts to define (a single) “experimental literature” are out of bounds at the moment.”


(3)


Two attempts to define:

If in what follows we talk about “experimental poetry”, that refers to texts whose information content (if present) is not set before the beginning of the writing process, so ones which do not steer towards a preset destination of meaning or for example illustrate this meaning. Freedom is always also freedom of intention. So even a text that wanted to impart to us that one can reach a tenable result only by the experimental route: guided by rules or sounds, by permutation, combination, etc., would not be, in this stricter sense, an experimental text. “Experimental” should describe an attitude (Priessnitz), not a package of procedures or a bulging box of tools.
“Avant garde” should be taken to mean: the category of people who write such texts.

That was it. End of presumption.

(4)

Beginning of the hairy part, an attempt to rescue some basic insights of the avant garde and to grant a patent of nobility to experimental writing.

And to begin right away with the hairiest point: freedom of purpose, missing statement- or meaning-goals, do not imply the absence of sense - just the opposite! Just that sense is not something that allows itself to be captured and transmitted in a planned way, for instance in the manner of a “lyrical speaking about” or in the addition of semantic components by the reader - it has rather, to put it somewhat vaguely, to generate itself.
Renate Kühn again:
“Especially enlightening in this connection is a glance at the French “scene” of the Sixties. Conservative criticism reproached the avant garde of the time, represented above all by the “Tel Quel” group, with wanting to abolish the “author” as well as “sense”. De facto the category of sense was, however, not at all being radically thrown into question. What was being questioned was rather the traditional idea, oriented around notions of mimesis, of a meaning of the text as preceding it, which was also seen as something that could be exchanged for it (…) This marks not only the transition from “sense” to constituting sense, but (also) stands in direct relationship to an idea of the author as losing his formerly privileged status as autonomous creator god and now becoming a subject…”
I don’t think it can be put better than that.

What corresponds to this widespread misunderstanding of the concept of sense is, quite directly, a misunderstanding about the concept of understanding: just as it was felt possible to understand the directions for use or a recipe, it must also be possible, with the relevant previous knowledge, to understand a poem. But here there are already several zombies lurking. I am actually not at also sure that it is really possible to understand a functional text in the intended sense - to discuss this here, with all its semantic and referential implications or - well: aporias, would surely lead us too far - a small question mark shall suffice. To understand a poem, though, whether it be by Goethe or Oskar Pastior, in the sense of an understanding or several distillable statements, seems to me not only impossible, but above all not rewarding of effort. So as to bypass the theory-of-knowledge plane, just a provisional working hypothesis: one does not read poems to understand them, but to understand understanding a little better. Which would then lead, in a volte-face which is even Fregean, to the notion that all poems, experimental or not, might have the same sense, that is, to bring the possibilities and impossibilities of our knowledge before our eyes. That is a lot and little at the same time, above all though it is dangerous for the advance of my argumentation, for if it is true that a “conventional” poem has the same sense as an experimental one, then the routes which lead to this sense would have to be equivalent or at lealest comparable. That is a quite important objection, and I am not sure if I can disarm it altogether. If we proceed from here on the basis that all poems have the same sense, it seems to me that there are at least two significant distinctions. For one, the conventional poem does not know that its semantic thrashing around is to no avail - it is leading to a specific and singular goal of sense! This can be formulated in the most banal case in a concluding moment, in more elaborate versions it shows through as a kind of epiphany or bringing to light, which could only be shown and understood in the form of this specific poem. And it is always about the transfer of an appearance from the outside world, a “picture of an object”, into the language the poem. Right away there is nothing to be said against it, and there are enough cases in which this is also successful. Only it is, I fear, not thought through. Poems which want to communicate to us such “bringing to light” experiences (or really do communicate them - as I said, I don‘t want to exclude that!) are in a strange way speechless. For as they trust the immediacy of their central picture, the epiphany itself, however artistic its linguistic form, they have left poetry far behind as they travel towards figurative art. One could even say that they are experimental in the bad way mentioned above, because they use language only as a box of tools to bring the “real thing”, which does not dwell in the realm of language, to linguistic expression. The bringings to light, which experimental poetry is concerned with, are always bringings internal to language, a reflection of language about itself, and what from the world comes to light in the poem always continues to be recognisable as linguistically constructed. For how would world be thinkable, even outside the poem, if not linguistically constructed and constituted; and something which is generally seen as a defect of experimental poetry, the kind which relates to itself and language, was in reality its great advantage: to take things and deal with them, as they present themselves: verbally.

This is the one essential difference between experimental (so, actually, realistic) and conventional poems. The second follows from it and consists of this, that experimental “exploratory” texts seem suited in a special way to engage productively with the semantic area of “analysis of understanding and perception”. If it is true that with “understand” and “perceive” we mean not phenomena before or adjacent to language, but genuinely linguistic ones, and in fact both as regards the process of understanding and perception itself, but also in relation to their contents (whatever that might be- possibly just more understanding and perception), then it seems obvious to me that in poems, based on this insight, there is hardly a distinction between the course of the poem and the process of perception - they demonstrate both to the same extent.

The sense of the poem: to understand understanding, would then not only be the result, but displayed itself already in facture and form - noticeably, compulsorily and not because the author had painted it on his banner. In the idle case - and now it gets even more convoluted: the experimental poem would understand itself in this way, and even if I don’t exactly know what it means, it seems to describe the matter quite well.

Behind the self-understanding poem lurks naturally also the poem which writes itself, and we have landed at the court of the author. The problem began to be heard with Renate Kühn, as loss of “the privileged status as autonomous creator god “. Now, the experience of the “it is writing” such an existential fact for every poet, that I don’t see any great differences here. Even the installation of a “lyrical self” cannot an should not cover over this fact. Apart from the fact that “self” and author are naturally different entities, the “self” seems to make one authorship seem likely, on the other hand it fictionalises the authorship so strongly, that one could say with equal justification that the “I” in the poem problematises authorship or suspends its operation. In general the prohibition of the word “I”, like most other prohibitions, is naturally obligated to the authoritarian gesture, and is in that way (liberal and doctrinaire at the same time) formally suspended. And from a distance the concepts of radical self-revelation beckon, which was of course once an important avant garde topos…

A word on methods. I find it, as indicated above, difficult or frivolous to define experimental poetry by its methods. For one thing, permutation (for example) neither an attainment of, nor the exclusive property of experimental literature, but came and comes into action also in non-experimental literature, on the other hand I would not be able to say what distinguishes permutation, apart from its rather weaker grade of conventionalisation, from regular metres, strict rhyme schemes, or particular strophic arrangements. The sense of writing to set rules was from the beginning to delegate the burden of meaning and reference, experienced as something imposed on language. What then comes to utterance in the poem does not do so because the author actually wanted to talk about it, but because the rules of the game suggest or demand that one form exactly this statement or this word. This shift becomes clearest in the especially strict game-forms like anagram or palindrome. The “it writes” is then demonstrated doubly, as not only language, but also by its side the rule, sit together at the writing-desk. And beyond that the “It writes” is so to speak brought to book - just through the fact that the author normally selects the rule which he follows. Here there is in fact a small distinction from, for example, a rigid metre. The simultaneity of a speaking and of speaking about speaking, the meta-level which has been recruited, is certainly one of the few methodical constants of experimental literature. But one should not fall into the error of taking on the meta-linguistic portion of poem as the actual speech, a speech of a higher order, for which the referential and semantic problem would be put out of play. This mistake has been named often, not least by me, and is indeed laden with consequences. Logically meta-language is confronted with the same difficulties and impossibilities as “regular” poem-speech (and, as I believe, also everyday speech) - if that were not so, it would have as a consequence that the whole experimental concept would collapse in on itself or would at least reveal itself as superfluous. The notion, that one has only to pitch the linguistic level high enough (or low enough - see this discussion around the phonetic subtext in Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons, which it is then planned to establish as the “real” text) and so would have returned to a linguistic paradise, in which words and things are perhaps not identical, but reference and meaning have regained their innocence, this idea is as attractive as it is idiotic.

What remains are the marginal features of the experimental spectrum: avoiding capitals, phonetic spelling, lack of titles, setting in blocks, syntactic eccentricities, in fact the whole world of deviations. Deviant is good. But doesn’t have to be, all the time.

(5)


Not the method, then, but the attitude. Experimental poetry as the form of “realised freedom” (Ernst Jandl), which out of its own impulse must reject every compulsion of method - and reject, in the end, an essay like this one. It is an insoluble dilemma, to demand absolute freedom in writing and simultaneously to deprecate certain disagreeable ways of realising it. Freedom naturally means always, as well and directly the right to write otherwise. Just that freedom seems to me not just to be something which is conceded to someone, but in equal measure something that one has to take. Although freedom does not obligate to anything, its meaning remains empty without the three Rs: risk-readiness, ruthlessness, and radicalism. Or - one number smaller: one should try to transgress the limits of conventionalised language use in the poem, if one wants to get to a place which is not already adapted to tourists. And when Harald Hartung, in 1975, in his volume Experimental Literature and Concrete Poetry, observes that experimental literature has become established, its methods have been tested out many times and by now it would be “actually the absence of stimulation and surprise which prevents us from experiencing this literature as experimental in the provocative sense of the word”, one must, without sharing Hartung’s evaluation in any slightest degree, - also because experimental literature is not free of the habit of developing commonplaces and conventions and carrying them along down the years. On the other side Hartung seems to want to say, implicitly, that the lack of stimulation and surprise was always constitutive for conventional literature. Enough said. But even if experimental literature, exploratory poetry, should succeed via clever swerves in dummying, also in future, the hedgehog of convention (which is nothing else than redeeming its promise of happiness), yet a problem remains. It presents itself just as a hundred years ago and is linked to the basic claim of the avant garde, to make art and lived reality the same thing. This seemed to me, for a long time, to be particularly simple: in this way, that I saw reality as linguistically formed and normed and can probably assume the same for poetry, I have to do more than to display this congruence in the poem, or the poem would (see above) perform that of its own accord, if it owes its being to this realisation. What was not clear to me - and is even today still not clear to me: what consequences this insight and its converse implications have for my life - the logically obvious “No consequences!” seems to me by now to be too little - and what that, conversely, means for the poem. Check this out.


(6)

“about the execution we note that our investigation has no claim to completeness. the gaps in our work, which arose under pressure of time, are well-known to us. we would gladly have worked it through again, increased the number of observations, tightened the discourse, unified the terminology. we hope nonetheless that this has been confined to surface deficiencies, flaws in beauty, and that these do not impair the argument. we present the work with the promise, to deliver a more thorough version at some point.”

(from: reinhard priessnitz/ mechthild rausch: “tribut an die tradition. aspekte der postexperimentellen literatur“. In: Wie die Grazer auszogen, die literatur zu erobern. Edited by Peter Laemmle and Jörg Drews. Issue of text + kritik magazine. Munich: 1975, 1979)

Notes (by AD)
Original texts were in German.
“new subjectivity“: the essential point about this was the rejection of the politicisation of the “generation of 68” and while it played a big role for cultural journalists it was not primarily a literary event.
German-language: a generous concept to avoid unintended slurs, as for example Pastior was Rumanian.
 Fischart and Kuhlmann: 17th century German poets.

“Neues Deutschland” was an East German newspaper, and “Völkischer Beobachter” was the mass-distribution daily which spoke for the Nazi party.


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Mid-century women poets: Coelsch-Foisner

Mid-century women poets: Coelsch-Foisner

At this point I am about to revisit a blog I wrote about 4 years ago, about Sabine Coelsch-Foisner's 3-volume work on mid-century British women poets. Then, I regretted its stylistic qualities while being glad to have a list of women poets one could go off and work on. (For the list, see the previous blog, posted August 2010) I admit that I did not read the thing back then, I merely saw it on the shelves of Cambridge University Library and spent a few hours examining it without daring to take it away.

The title is “Revolution in consciousness: an existential reading of mid-twentieth century British women's poetry”. This is a singularly unpromising subject. I am reminded of a review I have just been reading of a huge 1982 retrospective of Sir Edwin Landseer which the art critic Hilton Kramer saw in New York and responded to rather sarcastically. The sheer scale of the work (the Index starts at page 1165, the main text ends around page 1020) asks for the subject matter to be large-scale, just as the scale of the Landseer exhibition induced curators to claim grand status for the art included in it. This ominous symmetry is the most menacing aspect of such an endeavour. The fact that we are given a new product seems to suggest that the old product wrapped up inside it has uncharted potential and in fact needs to be revived. But although the work of Kathleen Raine and Edith Sitwell remains admirable, I am doubtful that the work of all the other poets even can be revived. Meanwhile the excess effort of the project may miss and obscure the virtues of small-scale work with its delicacy and discretion.

This is a passage from Anne Ridler, quoted at p.552:

Sitting in this garden you cannot escape symbols

Take them how you will.

Here on the lawn like an island where the wind is still,

Circled by tides in the field and swirling trees,

It is of love I muse,

Who designs the coloured fronds and the heavy umbels,

second-hand marriage, not for passion but business,

Brought on by the obliging bees.

(from 'The Phoenix Answered')

Surely this is not very inspired. And surely we don't need lengthy exegesis to break down barriers between us and it. And surely it does not require the creation of a whole critical vocabulary to explain what its intent is. (The style reminds me of Christopher Fry. The cleverly inverted description of pollination sounds just like him.)

The book would be more aptly titled 'people writing conservatively to avoid unpleasant thoughts'.

For example, take 'Ruth Pitter's book of cats”. This is likely to outlive the rest of Pitter's work as a commercial venture. The cat poems do not fit into C-F's cultural concept and do not get discussed. It seems possible here that the schema is unwelcoming to features which were really central to the poets concerned, and that the scale of the treatment does not mean that the handling will be accurate and revealing (of something that is actually there). This starts with the attribution of 'revolutionary' and 'existential' qualities of the poets in the title of the three-volume work. Would it not be more accurate to say that these poets stay inside their comfort zone? It seems a shame to write them up as scary people leading us into realms where we have to think and criticise, if they were really interested in children, animals, and gardens, and the idea of Comfort Zone was the source of the dominant stylistic factor, i.e. conservatism and rejection of a personal style. The Anglican Church has, in fact, represented for many people a Comfort Zone rather than a source of spiritual doubt, turmoil, and soul-searching.

The poets generally put serenity and harmony above other values. This connects them directly to affirmative culture, and we can see at this point that when Herbert Marcuse described that he was also describing- in large measure- contemporary feminine culture. But feminism preferred contestation and so imposed a boldly marcusean line.

I will quote one passage at length, describing the poetry of Dorothy Wellesley:

“The buried child reminds us of the hybrid constitution of the self, its origin and end in the child, which he suggests a primordial mode of being more in line with Jung's collective child-archetype than with Proust's personal memories of childhood.

Wellesley’s poetry abounds in such medallions – isolated lines which convey the central thought of a poem, pithy phrases, emblematic images and their ritual, dance-like recurrence, echo the central idea of her poetic vision: the circular stream of renewal and the persistence and resilience of life enshrined in a cosmic principle of birth and death. Wellesley’s “matrix”, her way of encoding this uterine mystery of life and sphingian wisdom, the preconscious chaos and early light of creation, provides a prototypical metaphor of the matriarchal mode: Matriarchal art “is a process which gives a pre-existing inner structure, found in the ritual of dance, external expression (Gottner-Abendroth p.82) This matrix or inner structure represents Wellesley’s concept of the numinous, of the instinct to survive mirrored in 'acts of love and passion':

Our loves are myths, our myths are loves. Out of Space, out of Time. The darting of blue dragon-flies over the lily pool, their beauty, their ardour, their lyrical ecstasy melting into union in the air, eternally they pulsate, eternally desire, their desire is their dream, their dream is their desire. They hold for a day their eternal illusion. This is their myth.“

(including a quote from Wellesley's autobiography)

The treatment of Kathleen Raine is one of the more acceptable chapters, since Raine actually was an important poet. C-F says that there was a whole wing of British poetry on the “spiritual” side, of whom Kathleen Raine was one. This is surely true, and she quotes at page 500 John Holloway and John Press as authentic sources for the idea. Press named a book on the English 1950s 'Rule and Energy', the “energy” part being authors such as Raine (and Gascoyne, Barker, etc.) The author says that Raine was not influenced by her contemporaries (except early on by the Experiment group, a group of student poets she was part of around 1930). This is true, but C-F does not say from where Raine did get her style. This account leaves out WB Yeats. If that source takes us back to the 1890s, it follows logically that Raine, Wellesley, and the whole congregation of “spiritual” writers were notably conservative in their approach, and that the esoteric-spiritual leanings of the Symboliste movement were the source of their cultural position. (James Webb wrote about this as the “Occult Revival”.) They presumably outnumbered the modernists. The belief in timeless values combines well, of course, with a rejection of innovation in matters of verbal form. If there is such a large party of poets sharing certain values, it is likely that the source of those values is several generations earlier, so that it has had time to disseminate. Despite the energy C-F has put into a battalion of deeply neglected poets, it seems possible that her work is short of context here – the relation of these poets to various strands of late nineteenth century poetry is not picked up. The thesis of “revolution” could not be sustained without establishing an older cultural set-up from which Nott, Lynd, Raine, Bowes-Lyon, etc., would have deviated in some way. It is doubtful that deviation was of central importance in what they did. If we accept that there was a cluster of modern innovations on the scene around 1920, then we can look at the poets who, in the 1920s, took these innovations on, risking the wrath of a literary audience which preferred the Victorian past, and see that they get a lot of attention from historians. But obviously not every poet who began publishing in the 1920s took on any of these innovations. A much larger number of poets were writing in a conservative way, where the influence of Tennyson, Housman, of Anglican hymns, of Theosophy and Symbolisme, was much more important. Change is more interesting to write about, but it loses its force as a concept when we look at large amounts of published poetry. Why should a style be valid for 20 years and not for 100? or only for two? Where is the scale built on which the point is marked where a style dies? These deaths are perhaps the key to understanding the history of poetry. The poets in question lack stylistic individuality (this statement excludes Sitwell, Raine, Stevie Smith). That is conventionally the point at which we stop recording and move on, but in a “recovery project” we also have to question the assumptions we brought with us. The idea of personal style implies not just a theory of Time but also one of property, individuation, demarcation - almost of territory. Certainly of competition. If you don't want the self to aggrandise itself and seize territory, then perhaps you don't want artists to have a personal style – or to express themselves, at the cost of other subjects. That whole attitude may be incompatible with a Christian ethos.

The account of Raine (at pages 500 to 544) is good but does not take on the esoteric doctrines which Raine saw as the laws of the universe. Although her religious commitment is what turns most people off, to cut the poems off from the doctrines which they illustrate is not the ideal solution. The imagery is not merely subjectivity, Raine was a true believer and her poems relate to Neo-Platonism (and the rest of it) as hymns relate to Christian doctrine. C-F has a 'New Age' esoteric religious doctrine which to some extent these aged English poets are being recruited to fill roles in. To some extent they fail by delivering lines of their own. It involves "the alliance of the imagination with magic, its embeddedness in matriarchal mythology, its resistance to the objectification of art, its rejection and denigration of power and control, and its emphasis on communal processes and social subversion.” (p.438). (The source of the esoteric 'alliance' doctrine is Heide Gottner-Abendroth. It is safe to say that none of the mid-century poets described was a follower of Gottner-Abendroth.)

C-F quotes Raine:

But what, then, is it in the assembly of organs of special sense, at one end of the central nervous system, that makes a face, that has recognisable unity, entity, person? To think too far this way leads to that madness for which there are not faces in the streets, and in the trains and buses, not people, but collections of organs, topping a spine, whose upper bones are stretched and pointed a little – but no faces, any more than on the breast and belly, no more than the fringed circle of the holothurian or the medusa.

I am inclined to say that you can’t write poetry without knowing what the answer to this question is. You can probably get away without being able to visualise a holothurian. The passage underlines Raine's link (at C-F page 501) to the other figures around Experiment, such as Charles Madge and William Empson and Hugh Sykes-Davies. She was preoccupied like them with the relationship between science and poetry. Many of her poems are like science writing. But the answer she found was Neo-Platonism.

C-F has no interest in whether a poet is good or bad. This is inseparable from the book’s method of becoming, that is as a doctoral thesis (Habilitationsschrift) at the university of Salzburg. The guiding idea is to accumulate large amounts of irrefutable facts, so literary judgement could only be a secondary accretion. At many points, though, one would be relieved to see a sentence like “Ignoring the vagaries of fashion, Venetia Celandine spent 85 years working quietly and unobtrusively on delicate nature lyrics, none of which are any good.” It is quite reasonable to start with an inventory. However, a project of recuperation normally gives preference to poetry which is interesting to read, that is which is able to be recuperated. C-F is more like an archaeologist who regards every grain of pollen as precious information about a lost era. C-F deals with people who wrote little nature lyrics by spending 20 pages explaining what a nature poem is and why it is Really Important. This is extensively unproductive. At the end we realise that the subject is still a little nature poem and is something we understand perfectly well. We do not need to be told that Nature is Big. The interest is more why a nature poet – most nature poets? - fails to write a poem which is also Big. To analyse this in a concrete case would give an image which has the right proportions. CF has no interest at all in whether her subjects succeed or not. This also gives a problem of proportion. Thus when we read about categories such as “the sphingian voice in Dorothy Wellesley’s poetry”, “the Uranian voice in Ruth Pitter's poetry”, the “ethos of the numinous”, the epiphanic mode, the apocalyptic mode, “the voice of incubus in Kathleen Nott's poetry”, the entropic mode, etc., we are seeing unbelievably long descriptions of things which were familiar at the outset, and where the criterion of being interesting has been rigorously excluded. The names tend to be Latin or Greek words but the poets are English. The argument that the named poets were producing significant and personal variations on set genres is not convincing, and I am doubtful that these laboriously worked out descriptions will be taken up by other critics. In fact, the title of “critic”, meaning someone who judges and who writes prose recording acts of judgement relating one thing to another and setting things in their true proportion, emphasising what is of value and pointing out what is of low value, is of little relevance to what C-F has set out to do. Crucially, the project is missing any mention of artistic failure, and so of any reasons for artistic failure. This is where there is a feminist angle. Because this walled garden of submissiveness, meekness, spirituality, piety, traditionalism, gentility, is where feminism started – as a violent antithesis. The problem with building a lens the size of a pyramid to magnify something modest by nature into Big Culture, is that you are obliterating the reason why feminism had to be invented. The lens operation is reducing our level of awareness of cultural sequence.

Does writing in these set genres mean a grand achievement or just harmonious unoriginality? The stage where the poem is interrogated to see if it measures up to the ideal is missing from the text. The degree of attentiveness is astounding but it has no fine lenses – the mediocre is written up with the good. The idea of creating a past for oneself, before birth, and rearing it up to monumental scale, can well be called the Curse of the Pharaohs. (Also a track by Metallica, we understand.) Everyone wants a past. If C-F's past is gigantic and overblown, that must be related to the modesty and delicacy of the literary works of female poets in the mid-century period. The two things are in no very exact proportion. Part of the Pharaonic risk is that the scale of the monument is related to the fact what is inside it is dead.

To take a section of the Past, to acquire it as a projection of cultural wishes of the Present, to blow up its scale in proportion to your wishes, to project into it cultural programmes that did not exist before the 1970s, to use it as a kind of projection of yourself, to recruit it as an example of the corruption of institutions you are in dispute with – this is also not compatible with a Christian ethos. In fact, it is what you would call Sin.

In the house I grew up in, there was a copy of a book of poems (The Invisible Sun) by Margaret Willy, which I think my mother had bought in the late 1940s. Willy did not seem to feature in the cultural histories, and this was a source of puzzlement to me later on. I am glad that C-F brings up Margaret Willy, not as a principal subject but in an interesting passage around p.282 where several “pastoral” poets are described. Books which later more or less institutional and metropolitan operations discarded had readers at the time, and gave them things they wanted. A female identification figure may well have been one of these things. Along with reviving these texts, we would hope to recover forms of sensibility which people practised and which relate to the texts as their counterparts, in a matching set. The contrast between the wishes of such an audience and the dominant styles of poetry is of interest. Certainly a lot of readers didn't like the styles variously represented by Eliot, Auden, Roy Fuller, Dylan Thomas, Philip Larkin, Brian Patten, and found other things to entertain them. These groups were passive and less articulate about their preferences. Certain sources, such as the old Poetry Review, do articulate these “intuitive” (or conservative) positions. I believe they typically draw on a less adult and more unconscious stratum of awareness and so are more difficult to articulate. There just wasn't an intellectual hinterland to the meaning-bearing structures in the poems the way there was for Auden, Spender, and so forth. And Poetry Review couldn't articulate its anti-intellectual position in prose. The contradictions in such a position become very powerful as you try to write about them logically. The endeavour breaks down.

I am aware of a book called The Distaff Muse, (edited by Clifford Bax and Meum Stewart, 1949), which gathered female poets going back to the Middle Ages. But up until the early selections of feminist poets, starting to flow in 1976 or 77, I am not aware of other anthologies of women poets. It is an interesting gap and the temptation to fill it must be very powerful. Certainly the mid-century saw quite a few women poets, and most of them have been forgotten today. (The old British Council pamphlets give lists of significant publications, which always include women poets. The 1957 one lists Kathleen Nott, Iris Orton, and Ruth Pitter almost one after the other.) Equally certainly, they resemble each other and represent a distinct poetic sensibility, which it is of interest to discover. Presentations of this sensibility from the time itself, and especially first-person statements from the poets, seem to be very scarce and would be of great interest. C-F has corresponded with at least one of the poets, and this material is of high interest. It seems very likely that there is a feminine sensibility which accounts for much in the poetry we are looking at. We would have to define what that is before finding out how much the poets differ on it. We don't have 20 different femininities; all the same Edith Sitwell is a long way removed from Dorothy Wellesley.

It is likely that the women of the time admired certain virtues as particularly feminine, and that female poets demonstrate these virtues in verse as well as observing them. The observance was also a limit, quite notoriously. The 'gentility' which Alfred Alvarez attacked in a famous anthology introduction was predominant in the English poetry scene he was looking at. It follows that somebody liked it. The poetry under consideration fits perfectly into that guiding concept of gentility, and surely it would have been better to explore the motive for liking that condition than to mount up this idea of “revolution”. Predominance is not easily achieved, and surely the whole cultural order of gentility is a large subject and worth recovering, Evidently the modern taste likes intensity and conflict, and it is useful to articulate why poets such as these rejected those emotional values in favour of serenity, harmony, piety. If you reject psychological positions which involve conflict, that has radical implications for what kind of poetry you like. If we accept that concentration on the self (anyone's self) tends to lead to conflicts, as selves clash over assets which both sides want, then the wish for serenity implies a critical view of the self. To develop an original artistic style would be rather in conflict with this. An interest in abstract ideas could also be incompatible with it – so far as that interest promotes dispute (a form of verbal intensity) and leads to radical disagreements about the social order. If we discover that Kathleen Nott was interested in philosophy, marshalled arguments against Christian positions in culture, was a prominent member of the Humanist Association, and was overall an Intellectual, that is a vital piece of knowledge about Nott; it also points out that almost all these women poets were not intellectuals, and that we need an anti-intellectual way of thinking about them.

I am tempted to say “poetic taste went from a state where people believed that intellectuals could not write poetry because everything they said was angular, jangling, abstract, disturbing, to one where people believed that only intellectuals could write poetry because only they could sustain originality over the long haul and, fundamentally, poetry is about originality and ideas”. But this is not quite accurate. If in 2014 most poets are thoroughly unintellectual and banal, it shows that intelligence has not won. The Cambridge School do not dominate the poetry shelves of bookshops. Instead, we might want to trace the history of banal and domestic poetry of 2014 back to domestic and banal poetry from mid-century.

I am tempted to say that “harmony” actually means “predictability”, a conservative principle where the past supplies the design rules. But matters are not so simple.

The idea of “revolution” suggests a realm of stylistic legislation which is able to be seized and changed, and which is thereafter binding on younger poets. To do it, you have to know where social power is. This seems to mean a degree of institutionalisation – controlling institutions, having been shaped by men, and working inside them – which leads us far away from where these poets are. Almost all of them believe in interiority and privacy to a remarkable extent. They are not open either to speculative stylistic reasoning or to factional impulses. Naturally this is part of being an out-group, and of being women and centred on the home and the domestic realm, while not doing significant things in office buildings, clubs, or universities. Because it is bound to authenticity and to empathy, it is important for the aesthetic principles of these poets. The word revolution leads us away from where these poets were happy and what they did best. The title is puzzling, but it looks (from p.407) as if the revolution C-F has in mind is a move out of the realm where historical change is possible, and into the archetypal. But if historical change is irrelevant, or a distraction, there are no revolutions.

Because C-F wants her subject to be revolutionary, she is unable to form a line of reasoning like “these poets ignore fashion. They did not go to university, being women. Fashion is produced where people throng together and have an intense shared interest. Perhaps the choice of conservatism is a solution to problems of not being part of the institutional literati who produced fashions.” This may not be right, but it is an example of the sort of hypothesis we need in order to get close to who these writers were. I suspect in fact that “revolutionary” and “existential” are male concepts and that they actively lead us away from recognising what these old-fashioned women poets believed and desired – and created.

It would be interesting to trace the development of fashions in poetry, perhaps to include semi-successful ones as well as the ones which became central. The very early history of these styles is the most revealing phase. No doubt the universities were important, and no doubt most of the innovative writers were also members of a dominant group in one way or another. Edith Sitwell is a striking exception in the 20^th century, not because she was not part of a dominant group (the landed aristocracy, no less) but because she never went to university and was not a man. It is hard

not to see a structural link between these facts and her lack of influence on other writers. However widely read she was, she lacked followers at the time and in fact never has had followers. It would be helpful to be given an exploration of how women poets influenced other women poets during the century. Was this what was going on? was Raine influenced by any women poets? Surely it would get us further to analyse how women poets were immune to innovations and “movements” and lived in a poetic world that didn't need that sort of thing. Such writers had a completely different sense of time. Later, as women poets came to be primarily graduates, these rules changed or disappeared.

The point of conservatism is to be acceptable, and indeed to be accepted. Whoever accepts, is accepted. C-F offers us nothing on such questions as whether more scripts by women poets were rejected than ones by male poets. It is hardly likely that adequate evidence still exists on this to be recovered at this date, but after all it would be interesting to know if projective ideas like “brilliant women poets have always been put down by men” have any validity except the candle-power of projection. We would like to see contemporary examples of generalisations about women's poetry or reviews of it. Negative reviews would be the most interesting, since after all it is the non-appearance of women in the history of the period which is most perturbing. This material is missing and after all the key processes are hardly inside the realm of literature. I am quite certain that there is neglected poetry by women from this period, but there is considerably more neglected poetry by men. The audience for poetry at the time was limited, and publishers were quite keen not to lose money. No doubt poetry got turned down on all sides. The process of losing out will stand a great deal of attention but clearly the losers are a diverse lot and not some wholly uniform and virtuous congregation dressed in white robes. I don't know whether we can retrieve some of the lost poetry. There is a lack of uptake from the wished-for audience. There is another issue about reviving and pumping-up poetry which was actually worse than the familiar poetry of the period and gravitated naturally to the dampest of the storage cellars. Where only heroic critic-historians wearing waterproof boots dare enter and linger.

C-F does not mention Lynette Roberts, Audrey Beecham or Eithne Wilkins. I definitely think that 'recovery' work should be directed at these. Indeed. Roberts has been recovered, with the admirable republication volumes edited by Patrick McGuinness. Work on Eithne Wilkins is progressing, I think we can say, among the fans of the 1940s.

Final points. Clearly there has been a deluge of gifted women poets since 1990, and I would recommend to anyone that they go and plunge into that deluge rather than struggling with these mid-century poets, most of whom can never be revived. Also, Deryn Rees-Jones' anthology 'Modern Women Poets' is much more effective as a way of getting to what from this blighted period can be revived. I suspect that reading groups spending an evening discussing an individual poem are going to be an effective way of dealing with the rather alien rules and suppositions of this era.

I should confess that I have only read volume two of this work, plus selected parts of the others while in the library.

After the end, I wish to quote a poem by Audrey Beecham (1915-89), a poet omitted by Coelsch-Foisner.

Fossil Bird

The vital nettle growing next the dock

Is less frustrate than I within this rock,

Whose blunted beak has tried a million years

To breach the prism of my crystal fears.

My fiery feathers are to fossils grown,

My blood-drawn talons sunk in nerveless stone:

A mountain’s weight is heaped upon my wings

While dauntless in the sun a small bird sings.

A changing world fell on me as I slept:

Yet, crushed in two dimensions, have I kept

The pattern of my predatory lust

Impregnable against the earth’s slow rust.

This is from a sequence named 'The Twelfth House', an astrological concept which the poet glosses as "It denotes ... secret toil of the mind, envy, incarceration … also according to Hay, 'it represents banished persons, malefactors, lost goods never recovered, long hidden wrath.'" (in the 1957 book, The Coast of Barbary). In the folklore of English children, the dock leaf is supposed to ease the pain of being pierced by stinging nettles. This never seemed to work. Beecham's pursuit of extreme states of mind, negative feelings, conflict, was basically unacceptable to most mid-century women poets, and also accounts for her appeal to modern taste. The poems are a total occupation of an emotional state one would like to vacate. A bird driven by predatory lust? is this the backstory of Crow?