Ezra Pound famously remarked that when poetry strays too far
from music, it ceases to be poetry. I would like to opine, as a tangent thought
to his, that when the higher arts stray too far from philosophy, they cease to
be the higher arts. Philosophy, no less than literature, is a series of
narratives; and that higher-end, intellectually ambitious literature should
twirl and torque meaningfully around philosophical quandaries and discourses is
something that English-language poetry has forgotten in the last half-century
(and I mean “pure” philosophy, as differentiated from literary theory or
aesthetics). The leveling process by which no distinctions between high and low
art are made, as a precondition to post-modernity’s preponderance, has effaced
interest in the “fundamental questions” in favor of narrow, nihilistic ironies
and corrosive but intellectually superficial cultural critiques. But that,
without reprising Romanticism, English language poetry can reclaim interest in
pure philosophy and the crux questions of human existence, is the assumption
these poems make. As such, they are angled against everything in the English
language oeuvre after T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, including the array of
Deconstructive, non-narrative poetics, which confuse the respective (though not
completely antithetical) functions of philosophy and poetry in an excessive and
demeaning alienation of the aesthetic.
How my approach differs from Eliot’s is this— rather than
compressing the sensory data relevant to his inquiry into succinct forms, he
prefers to paint on a wide canvas. The sharp points of his piece, often
expressed in axioms and aphorisms, suffer a dissipated sense of being too
generalized; an intermittent chiasmus with the tactile is represented, but
focus is all too often lost in digression and imprecisely motivated
meanderings. Many of Eliot’s axioms are, in fact, quotations (from, among
others, Heraclitus and St. John
of the Cross); and his Modernistic allusiveness chips away at the potential
philosopher’s stone of original cognition for him. The poems in Quiddities are compressed and formed in the manner of John Keats’ Odes; not, of course,
that the poems are odes, just that they are meant to convey mystery-in-brevity;
and a sense, however sodden with disillusionment and despair, of enchantment.
For enchantment in intellectual mystery, where English language verse is
concerned, few poems but these Apparition Poems after the English Romantics will
suffice. Modernism and post-modernism presented many shortcuts to a sense of
engaged cognition; but the full enchantment of the depths and mysteries of the
human mind and its powers of perception and discernment was not perceived or
represented. Impulses which could have led to these representations were deemed
too earnest, in a milieu and context which prized irony, and mistrust of any
form of depth, especially subjectively maintained cognitive-affective depth,
with or against impulses which could be deemed Romantic.
If Quiddities is not merely a reprise of Romantic impulses,
it is because the mysteries the poems encompass and close on are not
comforting. Wordsworth’s conception of intellectual enchantment is positivist;
he follows a pedagogical path to teach us, with a discrete, didactic, and
circumscribed system, how to think. This is the thematic backbone of The
Prelude, his masterpiece. Intellectual man, he informs us, can always fall
back on Nature; and Nature has the capacity to endlessly replenish intellectual
man. The other major Romantics offer more naïve versions of the same
intermittently comforting premise; even if Byron and Keats have ways of
building levels of permanent encroaching darkness into their visions, too. The
intellectual enchantment in Quiddities ends in itself; the poems offer no
system as a transcendental antidote, and nothing is endlessly replenishing in
the poems except the endless montage of thought (thoughts on more thoughts).
The enchantment offered by Quiddities is strange and (in a contradictory way)
bitter; cognition has no recourse but to recur endlessly, in a sensory
landscape as blasted and dystopic as the poems themselves. To circle back to
Eliot again, where Quiddities is concerned; it is cognition over the (or a)
waste land. But that the human intellect can and should develop its own kind of
narcissism, over the dictatorial narcissism of the senses, especially in America,
is presupposed. The human mind is the only enchanted place with any genuine
permanence for mankind; that is the key and primordial supposition here.
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