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Where is the poetry where meaning can wait?
While there have been a few poets willing to jump off the narrative cliff there haven't been many, at least to my knowledge. There is Ashbery. I'm sure there is some school of poets who followed his lead, poets I'm not aware of. And there was Pound and Eliot a long time ago. Eliot's Wasteland is within the narrative arc but it sure pushes the envelope. And Pound's Cantos are narrative at least to start with, but become so obscure that I do wonder if the proper way to read them is outside the narrative school. There are some poems of Dylan Thomas that he labeled "mouth music" and that resist interpretation. So how to proceed?
The point is this: remove ourselves from the narrative arc. Not completely--that would be simply random words or letters on a page: we would be creating an abstract painting, not a poem. But maybe the feeling is as if you might be at a party and someone comes up behind you and pushes you on the shoulder. You become unbalanced and almost fall. You wonder, What happened?
Wondering if others are into this sort of unbalanced non-narrative work.
The point is this: remove ourselves from the narrative arc. Not completely--that would be simply random words or letters on a page: we would be creating an abstract painting, not a poem. But maybe the feeling is as if you might be at a party and someone comes up behind you and pushes you on the shoulder. You become unbalanced and almost fall. You wonder, What happened?
Wondering if others are into this sort of unbalanced non-narrative work.
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RolloMartins said:While there have been a few poets willing to jump off the narrative cliff there haven't been many, at least to my knowledge. There is Ashbery. I'm sure there is some school of poets who followed his lead, poets I'm not aware of. And there was Pound and Eliot a long time ago. Eliot's Wasteland is within the narrative arc but it sure pushes the envelope. And Pound's Cantos are narrative at least to start with, but become so obscure that I do wonder if the proper way to read them is outside the narrative school. There are some poems of Dylan Thomas that he labeled "mouth music" and that resist interpretation. So how to proceed?
The point is this: remove ourselves from the narrative arc. Not completely--that would be simply random words or letters on a page: we would be creating an abstract painting, not a poem. But maybe the feeling is as if you might be at a party and someone comes up behind you and pushes you on the shoulder. You become unbalanced and almost fall. You wonder, What happened?
Wondering if others are into this sort of unbalanced non-narrative work.
Give Lee Harwood a go. Below is his 'angel rustling in the dry ditch'.
angel rustling in the dry ditch
ah the bamboos sing
not for you
not for you
and sadly
not for me
in this café
where angels drift
from table to table
whispering their lovepoems
waiting for my angel
who’s late as usual
who never comes
frogs and green fishes
whistle their lovewords
when they do
I only catch the last word
but hope some day
to hear it all
a quiet rustling
behind my shoulder
______
Basil Bunting's 'Briggflats' may be worth the investigation, too. The link below has a snippet from this book-length poem:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/apr/20/poem-of-the-week-from-briggflatts-by-basil-bunting
Hope that helps.
The point is this: remove ourselves from the narrative arc. Not completely--that would be simply random words or letters on a page: we would be creating an abstract painting, not a poem. But maybe the feeling is as if you might be at a party and someone comes up behind you and pushes you on the shoulder. You become unbalanced and almost fall. You wonder, What happened?
Wondering if others are into this sort of unbalanced non-narrative work.
Give Lee Harwood a go. Below is his 'angel rustling in the dry ditch'.
angel rustling in the dry ditch
ah the bamboos sing
not for you
not for you
and sadly
not for me
in this café
where angels drift
from table to table
whispering their lovepoems
waiting for my angel
who’s late as usual
who never comes
frogs and green fishes
whistle their lovewords
when they do
I only catch the last word
but hope some day
to hear it all
a quiet rustling
behind my shoulder
______
Basil Bunting's 'Briggflats' may be worth the investigation, too. The link below has a snippet from this book-length poem:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/apr/20/poem-of-the-week-from-briggflatts-by-basil-bunting
Hope that helps.
