ELIOT KATZ
EIGHT TECHNIQUES FOR CREATING MEMORABLE POLITICAL POEMS
In any library with a
decent-sized poetry collection, one can find plenty of books that
look at the intricacies of
English-language poetry’s traditional forms and meters and the
varied ways in which
well-known poets through the centuries have used those traditional
elements. Although he wrote
most of his best work in free verse, Allen Ginsberg knew
these traditional forms and
meters as well as most American poets of his time. After all,
Ginsberg had grown up as the
son of a traditional lyric poet, Louis Ginsberg, who used to
recite poems aloud in their
home. One can easily hear Allen’s innate grasp of traditional
English-language poetry
meter and rhyme by reading his blues or ballads, like “Airplane
Blues” or “September on
Jessore Road,” or by listening to the moving way in which he
put Blake’s Songs of
Innocence and Experience to music.
On a personal note, I was
always impressed with how many poems Allen Ginsberg
seemed to be able to recite
by heart. When he would ask me if I knew a poem by Shelley
or Milton, he would often
recite a dozen or so lines as a way of describing more
specifically which poem he
was talking about. During my studies with Ginsberg at
Naropa Institute in Boulder,
Colorado in 1980, where I took his class on William Blake
and where I did a one-month
poetry apprenticeship with him, Ginsberg was passing out
to students a photocopied
sheet which he had compiled and labeled, “A Synopsis of
Metrical Systems.” This
sheet listed the commonly studied English-language poetry
meters, based on stress
patterns over two or three syllables (iambus, trochee, anapest), as
well as less commonly used
metrical variations based on stress patterns over four and five
syllables (proceleusmaticus,
choriambus, anaclastic). Even when Ginsberg was setting
aside many of the
traditional notions of poetic meter in his own work, it was always clear
that he was choosing to
utilize some traditional formal tools, like assonance and
alliteration in “Howl,” and
that he had most of the remaining notions of poetic meter and
form in his poetic toolbox
for those moments when he wanted to pick them up.
In this volume, I will take
an occasional look at the way Ginsberg used some of the more
traditionally discussed
poetic techniques, but I want to look mainly at poetic tools and
strategies in a different
way, one that I think will better help illuminate some of the
various ways in which
Ginsberg made his political explorations effectively poetic. It is
possible to categorize such
strategies in any number of ways, but below I would like to
list eight general tools and
techniques that, throughout Ginsberg’s best work and
throughout, I think, much of
the best political poetry of our times, we can find used to
heighten the poetic quality
and resonance of social observations and ideas:
1) Clear images / empirical
perceptions / realist narrative.
Ginsberg had learned from
William Carlos Williams, among others, that the clear and
interesting presentation of
empirical detail was a basic tool of poetry. In “Spring and
All,” Williams had written
“so much depends / upon / a red wheel / barrow / glazed with
rain / water / beside the
white / chickens.” Ginsberg used to tell his poetry students to
write “close to the nose”—to
describe clearly and accurately what was in front of them so
that readers could see
through the eyes of the poet. In this kind of poetry, it was through a
poet’s objectively portrayed
observations that readers would be able to tell what a poet
was subjectively seeing and
thinking. Often citing Blake’s phrase “minute particulars,”
Ginsberg urged students to
notice what was unique about their observation: I remember
him saying that if one was
looking at a tree, for instance, one did not need to describe the
entire tree, just what was
odd about this one’s leaves or branches—and the reader would
then be able to picture the
entire tree. One sees Ginsberg’s use of imagery like this in
“Sunflower Sutra,” where he
notes “the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly
bleak and dusty with the
smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye.”
When I sent Ginsberg one of
my earliest poems, one of the poets that he suggested I read
was Charles Reznikoff, one
of the most well-known of the group of poets known as the
“Objectivists.” Ginsberg
appreciated the way that Reznikoff was able to craft emotionally
wrought poems by simply
presenting realist pictures or narratives, like this one from
Reznikoff’s long poem,
“Holocaust”:
An S.S. commander saw him
and asked where he had taken
the wood,
and the old man answered
from a house that had been torn down.
But the commander drew his
pistol,
put it against the old man’s
throat
and shot him.
Whether in “Kaddish,” where
Ginsberg uses moving, realist narrative to describe
heartrending moments with
his mentally ill mother, or in a later poem like “Junk Mail”
where, by simply listing the
contents of his daily mail Ginsberg provides readers with a
sense of the day’s most
urgent worldly events and social causes, Ginsberg had learned
that “minute particulars”
could effectively serve to ground even the most imaginative of
works.
2) Surrealism / Modernism.
The Paterson doctor-poet,
William Carlos Williams, appreciated for, among other things,
furthering the use of
American diction in U. S. poetry, was far more versed in
international art movements
than is sometimes acknowledged, including I think by
Ginsberg, who seemed mostly
interested in the doctor’s empirical verses. After all, when
Williams offered his image
of the red wheelbarrow cited above, it was in the middle of a
long poem, “Spring and All,”
which juxtaposed neatly condensed empirical perceptions
with longer sections of
playful, disjunctive imagery influenced by modernist art styles
like cubism and surrealism.
Ginsberg, too, had studied
these international modernist movements thoroughly, both in
the realm of visual art and
in the poetry worlds of French surrealism and Russian
futurism. In “Free Union,”
the French poet Andre Breton had written a poem for his wife
that uses a surrealistic
stream-of- consciousness style:
My wife with eyes full of
tears
With her eyes of violet
panoply magnetic needle
My wife with savannah eyes
My wife with eyes of water
to drink in jail
Breton had theorized
literary surrealism as a way to help bring together the evolving
studies of psychoanalysis
and leftist politics, and one can note here that Breton’s
associative imagery includes
an imagined cure for prison thirst. One can also note the
similarities between this
section of Breton’s “Free Union” and section IV of “Kaddish”
where Ginsberg uses similar
surrealistic free association imagery in relation to his
mother’s eyes.
The Russian futurist
Vladimir Mayakovsky also showed ways in which unreal imagery
could be used to highlight
idealistic desires. In “An Extraordinary Adventure which
Befell Vladimir Mayakovky in
a Summer Cottage,” the poet calls the sun out of the sky
to have tea with him. After
a slap on the back from the poet, the sun announces, “You
and I, / my comrade, are
quite a pair!” In the end, Mayakovsky knows the sun well
enough to proclaim on the
sun’s behalf: “Always to shine… / and to hell with everything
else! / This is my motto— /
and the sun’s!”
In the 1986 annotated
edition of Howl, published with photocopies of original drafts of
the poem, and notes and
correspondences related to the poem and its reception, Ginsberg
included selections of poets
that had influenced his poetry at the time of “Howl.” Among
the poets included were
Mayakovsky and the French poets Apollinaire and Artaud. From
French surrealism and
Russian futurism, Ginsberg learned techniques for adding electric
like energy to his work, an
excitement that could engage readers with its dynamic
rhythms and that could also
imply utopian desires, along the lines of Ernst Bloch’s
“anticipatory
illuminations,” described earlier in this volume, through its use of imagery
that does not yet exist in
the actual world.
3) Mythification.
Mythification is somewhat
related to surrealism in that it can move a poem beyond
empirically based narrative.
By mythifying current events or interpretations of history, a
poet can impart an aura of
timelessness to current events or ideas. The most famous
instance of this in
Ginsberg’s poems is his use of “Moloch” in part II of “Howl.”
Ginsberg’s use of this
poetic tool drew on William Blake’s invention of the character
“Urizen” in Blake’s long
prophetic works. Ginsberg acknowledged that it was from
Blake that he learned the
poetic technique of taking “political details,” and “magnif[ying]
roles into cosmo-demonic
figures.”
The impulse to mythify
current events can also be seen in another of the most famous
English-language poems of
the 20th century, William Butler Yeats’s “Easter 1916.” In
that poem Yeats memorialized
the leaders of Ireland’s Easter Rebellion through such
poetic tactics as
associating one (Patrick Pearse) with the mythical figure of Pegasus:
“This man had kept a school
/ And rode our wingèd horse.” The end of Yeats’s poem
serves to provide a sense of
eternal poetic relevance and a timeless, living existence to the
named activists who in real
life had already been put to death:
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Whereever green is worn,
Are changed, changed
utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
It is this same strategy of
mythification that Yeats employs when, in “The Second
Coming,” after noting that
the “best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of
passionate intensity,” he
asks: “what rough beast, its hour come round at last, / Slouches
toward Bethlehem to be
born?”
4)
Demythification/Demystification/Historicization.
In a mirror strategy,
Ginsberg often deconstructs false myths promoted by the
mainstream media or
government institutions. Ginsberg’s motive in these instances is to
give readers a more accurate
sense of history—or of the human values at stake in a given
situation—than that which is
being provided by establishment authorities. We can see
this tool used frequently,
for instance, in Ginsberg’s most well-known poem opposing the
Vietnam War, “Wichita Vortex
Sutra,” which is filled with shrewd and powerful
historical perceptions that
undermine the military and corporate media’s propaganda
justifying that unwarranted
war. While generals tried to convey a sense that they were
supporting a popular South
Vietnamese army, Ginsberg’s poem notes that even the CIA
knew Ho Chi Minh would have
easily won a democratic election if one had been held.
While the media trivialized
war casualty counts, Ginsberg humanized the victims by
asking readers whether they
have looked into the eyes of the dead.
This is the sort of
historicization undertaken by Muriel Rukeyser when she went down to
West Virgina and wrote her
masterpiece long poem, “Book of the Dead,” which takes an
in-depth and poetic look at
an industrial accident in which 2,000 men died because Union
Carbide had them dig through
a silica tunnel without the proper protective masks. In that
poem, Rukeyser presented
verbatim quotes from Congressional hearings in which the
government decided to let
Union Carbide go legally unpunished. As a humanizing
counterweight to those
callous government hearings, Rukeyser also presented historical
testimony from surviving
spouses, as well as stunning lines of poetry intended to break
through common corporate
rationalizations for making decisions based more on profit
maximizing motives than on
considerations of human health and well-being. Rukeyser’s
poetic strategy of
demythification is explicitly explained in her poem, “The Poem as
Mask,” where she declares:
“No more masks! No more mythologies!” Of course, a single
poem can contain elements of
both mythification and demythologization. In “The Poem
as Mask,” once Rukeyser has
announced “There is no mountain, there is no god,” she can
then and seemingly only then
assert that “the god lifts his hand, the fragments join in me
with their own music” —that
is, once Rukeyser announces that there is no external
omniscient god, she can
realize a new mystical idea of a divinity within. In a later
chapter, I will look at the
way Ginsberg’s “Wichita Vortex Sutra” uses similar strategies
of both demystification and
re-mythification to oppose the Vietnam war.
5) Personalization.
By intertwining highly
personal themes with social issues and historical moments,
Ginsberg heightens the
emotional intensity of political matters by concretely
demonstrating their impact
on individual human beings. One sees this most readily and
effectively in “Kaddish,”
Ginsberg’s long elegy for his mother, Naomi, where his
mother’s mental illness and
his family’s interactions are so tied up with world affairs that
moving descriptions of
Naomi’s decline and Allen’s responses necessarily carry social
implications.
Indeed, in many love
poems—and also elegies—written for politically engaged persons,
we see the emotional power
of a poem carried partly by virtue of the connections made
between the personal and
political. In his beautiful poem, “In the Middle of This
Century,” Israeli poet
Yehuda Amichai describes a war-ravaged environment in which
“The earth drinks people and
their loves / like wine, in order to forget.” In such a turmoil
filled society, love seems
stronger because of its seeming ability to exist in opposition to
the pitilessness of the
world: “Desert dust covered the table / we hadn’t eaten from. / But
with my finger I wrote in it
the letters of your name.” At the end of Amiri Baraka’s love
poem, “Ballad Air &
Fire,” he succinctly describes a connection between personal love
and social activism: “what
it was about, really. Life. / Loving someone, and struggling.”
Personalization can also
embed political intentions within self-exploration, in that some
personal struggles can be
seen as attempts to assert subjective desires against an
objectifying or dehumanizing
culture, as when Ginsberg declares at the end of
“America”: “America, I’m
putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.” In Judy Grahn’s
1973 epic poem, “A Woman Is
Talking to Death,” the poet ends with a declaration that
implies human subjectivity’s
triumph over an oppressive culture:
wherever our meat hangs on
our bones
for our own use
your pot is so empty
death, ho death
you shall be poor.
This is the assertion of
human worth against a repressive society that Adrienne Rich
implies when she ends her
poem “North American Time” with the line “and I start to
speak again,” and that
Langston Hughes memorably declares when he says, “I, too, sing
America.”
6) Humor.
As far back as Ovid and
Catullus, poets well understood that humor helps make the
political medicine go down,
and it helps engage readers or listeners in ideas they might
not otherwise stop to
consider. In poems like “America” and “Death to Van Gogh’s Ear,”
Ginsberg helped re-introduce
to poetry readers the realization that poetic humor could
appear as an element in
high-quality poetry and also that humor was not at all the
opposite of seriousness of
purpose. If one listens to the early live recording of Ginsberg
reading “America” on Holy
Soul Jelly Roll!, the audience laughter after many of the
poem’s lines is stunning—and
it is clear that mid-1950s audiences were not expecting
such humor in poems. Yet,
when Ginsberg asks America “When can I go into the
supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?” it is clear that he is asking a
comically phrased, but
serious question about when the nation’s economic system will
become more just. The humor
helps turn the line into quality, memorable verse.
Ginsberg’s sense of poetic
humor has clearly been one of his most lasting influences in
the literary world. It
influenced his immediate Beat Generation circle, as we can readily
see in the inventive poems
of Gregory Corso, whose poem “Marriage”—which begins,
“Should I get married?
Should I be good? / Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit
and faustus hood?”—became an
instant hit in literary circles and with anthology editors,
and who continued to write
brilliant, funny poems like “I Gave Away” and “The Whole
Mess…Almost” throughout his
career. Or look at some lines from Pedro Pietri’s poem,
“Telephone Booth Number 905-1/2,”
which has also become a classic example in some
circles of a highly serious
theme conveyed in comic style. After calling his employer to
say that he will not be
coming to work that day, his employer asks the poet if he is sick,
to which the poet responds:
“No Sir” I replied:
I am feeling too good
to report to work today,
if I feel sick tomorrow
I will come in early
7) Extending or subverting
previous poetic traditions in interesting ways.
In discussing the
significance of William Blake lengthening John Milton’s poetic line and
using free verse instead of
Milton’s blank verse, Susan Wolfson notes that Milton had
utilized blank verse in
order to free poetry “from the troublesome and modern bondage of
rhyming,” and that the more
radical Blake subsequently “raised the stakes, launching a
revolutionary poetics in
Milton (1804) that outdid Milton, by expressing heroic contempt
for any ‘tame high finisher
of … paltry Rhymes; or paltry Harmonies’.” Ginsberg too
realized that extending or
altering poetic traditions could carry a social or political
resonance. In “Howl,” for
instance, Ginsberg utilizes long lines in the tradition of Blake
and Whitman, but he makes
his own lines even longer than these cherished predecessors’.
As I will discuss further in
the next chapter, these long lines carry the implication of an
even more radical project of
freeing self and society from restrictive boundaries.
In addition to long
free-verse lines, Ginsberg also utilizes and, in some ways, extends a
variety of other formal
traditions—including American blues and jazz, Old Testament
concepts and rhythms,
pastoral poetry, war verse, modernist montage—in ways that
resound politically and that
will be discussed further throughout this book.
8) Surprise!
When Emily Dickinson was
asked what constituted a great poem, she famously declared
that she knew a poem was
great when it made the top of her head feel like it was coming
off. What Dickinson was
getting at was the element of surprise, the element that—more
than any other, I would
argue—can make a poem feel aesthetically vital. That surprise
can come in any number of
ways—through thought-provoking insights, surprise
phrasing, startling imagery,
an unexpected way of looking at an event or object, an odd
line break, novel wit or humor,
an inventive sense of rhythm or form, or a provocative
way of addressing previous
poets and poetry traditions. When Adrienne Rich asks, as
noted above, why much
political poetry seems weak, I would answer because much of it
seems rather flat and predictable,
in both substance and language, just as does much
psychological poetry.
Importantly, the question of whether a poem offers surprise to the
reader is relevant whether
the poem is written in the style of Language Poetry or narrative
poetry. As Ginsberg’s poetry
evidenced, and as poets like Pope and Dryden well knew,
even politically didactic
poetry, so often disparaged by mainstream reviewers, can be
effective when it is
accompanied by surprising phrasing, imagery, or insight, so that as
literary vehicles the poems
are not merely reducible to their pedagogical effects, i.e. so
that they are not merely
“versified ideas” (Levertov).
The issue of surprise is, of
course, a subjective one. What is new and surprising to one
reader may not be to
another. When we talk about poetry of extraordinary literary value,
we are talking about poetry
that will inspire surprise and wonder in a relatively large
number of readers—or we
think it would inspire that sense of wonder if a large number
of readers were to see the
work. Usually, though perhaps not always, the appearance of
surprise will require that
readers are already engaged with, and paying attention to, the
text for other reasons in
order to feel the surprise arrive. For that to happen, poets have to
have a competent sense of
the other items in a poet’s toolbox, including a sense of poetic
rhythm that can maintain a
reader’s attention or curiosity. When my friend Danny Shot
first gave Allen Ginsberg a
poem in 1976 after we saw him read at Rutgers University for
the first time, Ginsberg
sent Danny a postcard soon thereafter (in May 1976), which
noted in part: “Another
thing you gotta remember is each line should have some haiku or
double joke or image or mad
sound or Poetry in it, not be just flat prose.” In a poem like
Ginsberg’s “Howl,” it is the
inventive and endlessly surprising linguistic mix—nothing
like “flat prose”—that has
enabled the poem to continue sounding lively and relevant to
so many successive
generations. The surprise quality in Ginsberg’s poems is what Helen
Vendler observes when she
writes: “his mind roams widely, in unpredictable ways….One
can’t widen consciousness in
poetry by having it follow a programmed path.” (Part of
Nature, 100-101).
Because most readers are not
expecting so forceful a question, it is a sense of surprise
that I believe hits so many
readers when Langston Hughes asks at the end of “Harlem (A
Dream Deferred)”: “Or does
it explode?” It is also what so intrigues readers when first
coming across the modernist
anti-narrative style of Gertrude Stein: “Red flags the reason
for pretty flags / And
ribbons. / Ribbons of flags.” It is the jolt felt by readers at the first
line of Mayakovsky’s “A Few
Words about Myself”: “I love to watch children dying.” It
is the way Pablo Neruda makes
readers look at war and political repression in new ways
through a cubist-style
variation in line breaks at the end of “I’m Explaining a Few
Things,” written in response
to fascist violence during the Spanish Civil War:
Come and see the blood in
the streets.
Come and see
the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!
Surprise can also be created
through the invention of words, as when Adrienne Rich titles
a poem “Dreamwood,”
conjoining the material world with the realm of fantasy via
language, or when Yehuda
Amichai entitles a poem “Wildpeace,” implying that he is
calling for a peace arrived
at through energetic activity by all parties, not the clichéd
peace of “the wolf and the
lamb.”(88)
Surprise can come in the
form of a stunning line or two, like this one from Adrienne
Rich, “beauty that won’t
deny, is itself an eye” , or these two from Alicia Ostriker at the
end of “The Volcano
Sequence”: “sometimes the stories take you and fling you against a
wall / sometimes you go
right through the wall.” In Jayne Cortez’s “Tell Me,” the
surprising imagery comes
from one line to the next in the form of biting surrealism
addressed to an overly
militarized society: “Tell me that the plutonium sludge / in your
corroded torso is all a
dream / Tell me that your penis bone is not errupting / with the
stench of dead ants.” At the
end of Andy Clausen’s poem, “We Could,” Clausen writes a
striking line that is
simultaneously a protest against religious fundamentalism and the
ultimate act of embracing a
deeply human spirituality: “We lick the Jewel in the Lotus /
till it is human / then / We
eat God alive!” After 9/11, the Palestinian-American poet
Suheir Hammad circulated a
poem, “first writing since,” on the internet that surprised
readers with its incisive,
close-to-home mix of mourning and emotionally charged
complaint: “one more person
asks me if i knew the hijackers. / one more motherfucker
ask me what navy my brother
is in. / one more person assume no arabs or muslims were
killed.” And, in the early days
of the Bush administration’s unending, so-called “war on
terror,” rapper Michael
Franti noted in a popular song called “Bomb the World,” in a
surprisingly compact
couplet: “You can bomb the world to pieces / But you can’t bomb it
into peace.”
In his poem, “Many Have
Fallen,” Gregory Corso reminds readers that he once wrote a
“frolicy poem called BOMB”
in which he predicted that an atomic bomb would fall
during his lifetime. He then
notes later revelations that the U.S. tested nuclear explosions
in the deserts of Utah,
Nevada, and New Mexico in the 1950’s, and marched soldiers
toward the blasts to observe
the after-effects. In the poem’s last three lines, Corso
strikingly asserts: “all
survived / … until two decades later / when the dead finally died.”
The last line is accurate in
a realist sense in that soldiers died cancer-ridden deaths years
after this nuclear testing,
from radiation they had received at the time of the blasts, but it
is the profound phrasing
that makes my head, as a reader, metaphorically pop off, along
the lines of Emily
Dickenson’s notion of powerful poetry. When all of the elements are in
place, including the element
of surprise, there is a sense that a poem has magic. Denise
Levertov urges political
poets to remember “poetry’s roots in song, magic, and the high
craft that makes itself felt
as exhilarating beauty even when the content voices rage or
utters a grim warning.”
Allen Ginsberg developed one
of our time’s most important poetic voices through an
inventive mix of poetic and thematic
explorations, and a rather large supply of literary
magic. The eight tools and
techniques enumerated above are meant to be flexible, and are
intended mainly to provide
some new ways to talk about how Allen Ginsberg’s (and
other writers’) political
poems gain their literary vitality. In the following chapters, I will
look closely at Ginsberg’s
poems themselves to explore their internal dynamics and also
to examine their external
dynamics—how they engage perceptively and imaginatively in
dialogue with the world
around him. I will also take a look at the way Ginsberg moved in
his own life to put his
political ideas into activist practice.
[“Eight
Techniques for Creating Memorable Poems”
is an excerpt from Eliot
Katz’s The Poetry
and
Politics of Allen Ginsberg (Beatdom Books, 2016). Reprinted with permission of
the author.]