
The last gasps of the American revolutionary spirit were choked out in the Civil War,
when the most conservative form of liberal government ever invented unhinged its jaws
and swallowed its antithetical self, the
South,
whole, only to have to regurgitate some o
its bones, of course, every twenty years or so since 1865. The lesson is that no revolution,
no matter how revolting, can avoid the voracious maw of a stable Democratic republic
that will assimilate, digest and even grow fat on anything.
The political is the poetical. America is so huge that any revolution will find its
audience here and none can possibly disturb it. Our pilgrim Protestantism is our special
handicap: American poets believe in a personal poetics the way Luther believed in a
ersonal God; alas, we usually skip any dreary reading of the scriptures on our way to
revelation. (American poets start reading poetry only after they have started writing
“poems.”) American poets don’t even really like poetry (cf. Marianne Moore); it’s a
subject to avoid, like politics or
religion
.
We cannot agree on what makes poems good. We cannot agree on what defines the
craft. We may praise our diversity publicly, but when we do so we deny our divisiveness.
We bond, when we do, through our dislikes, and we will not be led, or defined, by
anything but our personal constituencies. “Don’t Tread On Me” and “Live Free or Die!”
were the slogans on American revolutionaryera snake flags; those snakes were severed.
The unity in American poetry can be heard in our relatively democratic, demotic
voices. Yet even a plain-speaking American poet is apt to dislike two or more of the
following “schools” for one or more reasons: beat poetry (too loose structure,
antiestablishment rhetoric, often bisexual or
homosexual
as if that were interesting);
formalist poetry (uptight structure for its own sake, dead white pseudo-establishment
rhetoric, often homosexual); L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry (nonce or non-traditional
structure, arhetorical—the last thing it wants to do is convince anyone of anything,
asexual); slam poetry (dramatic structure, antiestablishment rhetoric enhanced by
screaming, pan-sexual); world poetry (sounds like translation, employs traditional
European rhetorics, often bior homosexual as if that didn’t matter); and the poetry o
personal growth (loose structure, earnest anti-establishment rhetoric, pan-sexual—all in
fear of casting judgment). Some poets do cross over: in the Haight-Ashbury for instance,
it used to be cool to hate Ashbery; no more.
Gil Scott-Heron didn’t know how right he was when he forecast that “the revolution
will not be televised.” He didn’t know he was pointing to the impossibility of revolution
in a country where everything is televisual. (Seeing
Los Angeles, CA
burn puts out fires
in
Atlanta;
Mark Strand on the
Internet
encourages a beatnik in
Seattle
.) American
oetry of the future will certainly be polyglot (the dominance of English will recede),
ublished in cyberspace (less and less print) and defined by performances (preserved on
CD and DVD) instead of text. Everything will be possible and nothing will matter to us
all.
DANIEL BOSCH
Entries A-Z 881