The Physiology of Poetry

The first thing you must know about reading poetry is that it is unlike reading any other kind of text; not an essay; not a novel; not a newspaper article. Poetry is read as if it were read aloud. When it is read aloud - recited - it is, in essence, performed. The sound of the spoken word is as important as the content. Poetry resides at the primitive intersection of expression and meaning, vocalisation and intention. Language emerges from the body's capacity to produce sounds and to gesticulate (with hand gestures, body language, and facial expressions). When language takes the written form, we often neglect this essential embodied foundation. When reading poetry it is important to remember that it is grounded in the body: the lungs; the heart; the throat; the tongue; the lips; even the neck and back muscles. Posture matters in the recital of poetry - both real and silent - and the understanding that follows from this embodying of the poem.

The act of reciting silently to oneself I call "self-recital." The name, however, implies more than just reciting to oneself; it entails a recital of oneself. In reciting a poem, the reader is imitating or mimicking the poem and the creative processes that constitutes the making of the poem. Following this line of thinking, one might more appropriately say the reader recites the "self" of the poem through this imitation. I must stop here on this point, however, before it gets too abstract. Two things have been asserted thus far that need reiterating: first, reading poetry entails an act of recital; second, and related to the first, reading a poem entails imitation, or mimesis. When we read or recite the poem, out loud or to ourselves, we mimic it. 

So far, this won't help your understanding of poetry; what I have said is very abstract. Persevere: it will make sense shortly. What i have posited doesn't answer the most common complaints about poetry from novices. "I don't get it!" "I don't understand poetic metre." "Why does poetry rhyme?" "Why doesn't this poem rhyme!?" There are different issues at play here, but all these issues revolve around how poetry makes the meaning that it expresses. As I said above, poetry derives from a primal site of human meaning-making: the body. This is why poetry is performed, or acted out, even in self-recital. 

Rhyme and metre are merely devices that help the poet to shape and contort the language (meaning and expression) he or she uses. To the reader, these devices, if and when they are used, are like stage directions; the reader shapes and contorts himself as he or she tries to mimic the poem. By contortion, I am making a physiognomic connection: the mouth, the face, the tongue, the lungs, the eyes, even the neck and back muscles of the reader take a different shape to mirror or mimic the poem in order to reproduce the meaning-making process of the poem. These contortions in the act of self-recital are not obvious, of course. Nobody twists their features so dramatically in a way we would recognise as physical "contortions." The contortions I mean are neurophysiological. The imitation of poetry is subtle and internal. 

The devices that are used to contort and compress the words and sounds of the poem are often misunderstood, and because they are misunderstood the reader's mimetic relationship with poetry is greatly diminished. Here, I will address rhyme and metre, arguably the two most commonly misunderstood elements of poetry. Rhyme, in particular, has an insidious effect on our experience and understanding of poetry. Rhyme is often seen as a basic poetic device, when nothing is further from the truth. Rhyme misused destroys poetry and our understanding of it. 

End-rhyme, for instance, can give the impression that poetry must be read "to the end of the line"; that is, poetry should be read to "hit" the rhyme so that the rhyme is emphasised. This is not the case, certainly not with blank verse or free verse, not even with all rhyming poems. Poems do not have to rhyme, but plenty of good poems do. "Reading to the end of the line" is entirely the wrong message to take from the effect of end-rhyme. Metre, for example blank verse, is used, in part, to subvert acquired reading habits. More specifically, however, metre is used to compress the speech pattern of the poem in order to achieve rhythm. Importantly, rhythm is established so that it, too, can be subverted, changed, altered. A rhythm that does not change is monotonous, and poetry written as such doggerel.

Rhythm from line to line tends to remain consistent, albeit with variations, called hypermetric features. Simply because the rhythm is largely consistent doesn't mean you stop at the end of the line and start again at the beginning of the next. The rhythm wraps around from one line to the next based on the sentence structure. As such, you don't read to the end of the line, you read to the end of the sentence. The compression caused by the metre emphasises the rhythm of reading, but you still read for the logical unit of thought: the sentence. This raises the further question of grammar - while we have considerable flexibility with grammar in poetry, we cannot wholly ignore it (although some have tried). Punctuation, for example, plays an important role in signifying rhythm. In primary school, we are often taught that the comma signifies a "short" pause or breath, while a full stop signifies a "long" breath. This description, while questionable in the teaching of technical grammar, is useful for reading poetry. 

Where the metre provides the tension and compression required to produce a consistent rhythm, and rhyme can help to enforce that rhythm, punctuation and grammar help to structure and signify, or flag, the rhythm to the reader. When reading a poem, imitating it in the act of self-recital, we read in "parcels" of two to three words. The metre, specifically the basic unit of metre the foot (2-3 syllables), at a fundamental level, and punctuation and grammar at a level higher (and rhyme at a level higher still) all contribute to the way we perceive and subsequently comprehend the poem. The poem is a dynamic of these (and other) elements. Reducing the poetic experience to any one element is counterproductive. 

There are a few points to take out of this discussion:

1) Reading poetry is a form of performance, a recital or self-recital, which is predicated on an act of imitation. 

2) This act of imitation is an embodied act. Poetry acts upon the body in subtle but significant ways. 

3) Poetry employs a number of devices, including metre, rhyme, and grammar and punctuation, to compress and contort language for effect.

4) The reader mimics these contortions in order reproduce the meaning-making process of the poem. 

5) In imitating the poem, the reader must take a couple of things into account:

5i) Not all poems will feature all the possible elements of poetry. Not all poems rhyme for example.

5ii) In order to experience the rhythm of the poem, we don't read to the end of the line, but to the end of the sentence.

5iii) Punctuation and grammar helps to provide "stage directions": a comma indicates a short breath, a full stop a long breath, semicolons and colons somewhere in between. When they are used, question and exclamation marks indicate the appropriate inflection. 

One last point is worth reiterating, and it relates to the process of reading itself. There is a disparity between the way we perceive words on the page and the way we speak them. When we read, our eyes dart rapidly from side to side, movements called saccades. Because of this, we don't actually read word by word, we read in parcels of words, two or three at a time. When we speak, however, we speak in syllabic progression; to be understood, we have to enunciate our words clearly (speed of enunciation differs with familiar, mature native speakers). 

Poetry, as an act of imitation and recital, requires that we read at a pace that allows us to enunciate the words in syllabic progression; but because of our faster reading habit (saccadic rhythms are the reason we can skim read) we have to resist the urge to skim or scan quickly. If this happens, the effect of the poem is lost. This is one aspect of poetry's subversion of acquired language habits. Importantly, the saccadic rhythm of eye movements helps us find the beat of the poem. A metrical foot is 2-3 syllables long. We can, in fact, perceive the metre of half a line quite easily, with a little practice. The punctuation on the page helps to slow us down even further, because a foot usually does not cross punctuation marks. 

Hopefully, I have conveyed the complexity of the poetic experience, but I have not overwhelmed you with it. There are simple things to keep in mind in order to come to grips with poetry. It is only through accumulating an admittedly imperfect arsenal of hints, tips, and rules of thumb over time, as well as plenty of practice, that you will reconstruct the poetic experience for yourself and come to understand poetry at its most fundamental level. 

Critical Literacy and "Merit"

Recently, there has been much consternation about the make up of the Australian Federal Cabinet and its lack of female representation. Many words have already been spilled over this issue; my concern here is the appeal to the concept of "merit" as the primary defence of this inequity. There is a lesson to be learned here in terms of understanding arguments, or in this case a counter-argument, that are predicated on a single, crucial term. That is, it provides us with a lesson in critical literacy. 

Any argument that is predicated on a central term can always be subverted. It is the person, or group, who use the term that must define it, and it is your right to challenge that definition. In fact, if you don't challenge their definition, you are giving up half the intellectual battle. The argument in the case of the Federal Cabinet is simple: people are appointed on merit; therefore, those who have missed out were judged not to be meritorious enough. There is only one woman in the Cabinet, therefore she was the only woman deemed meritorious. The whole argument is predicated on the notion of "merit." 

But what does merit mean? If we take the basic dictionary definition - "something that deserves or justifies reward or commendation" - who could possibly object? The problem, however, is not definitional. Definitions are useful, but they are the base level of saliency for any word or term. What is important is its application, and the understanding of those who apply the concept of merit in any given situation. The question is "who decides what is meritorious?" If the ones making the decision are all, say, middle-aged white men, do they really have an understanding of merit beyond their own background? 

One could retort that there is an objective measure, somewhat tautologically: merit is what merit does. But if there be such an objective measure, then it would be easy to articulate. If it is, indeed, objective, then everyone should be able to read it and understand. Unless, of course, only the meritorious can perceive merit, but then we end up begging the question. The fact is, the definition of a term, and the power and right to define it, cannot rest upon a tautology, let alone a blatant fallacy.

The question remains: who decides what is meritorious? The entire argument is specious because it is predicated on a single concept, buttressed by supporting arguments or evidence. This is the common defence of the status quo. The only way for the concept of merit to achieve any level of validity is for it to be tested, abstractly and concretely. We test to notion of "justice" in the courts everyday. We make mistakes even there; we learn, and we make appropriate changes. The hope is that we improve our understanding, and ultimately our application of justice. There is an entire industry built around testing the notion of justice: lawyers. Justice is a much more fundamental concept than merit; why should we not apply the same scrutiny to the notion of merit, which can be seen as related to justice?

It is important not to let any significant term go unchallenged, especially if an argument is so reliant on just one. Those who seek to use that term as a premise for their argument must defend it; consensus is an illusion in these moments, and you should never grant consent to the use of a term or concept without proper scrutiny. These battles, which can seem pedantic, lie at the heart of our social and political life; it is only with critical literacy, the ability to break down an argument or an idea, that we can hope to wrest the debate away from charlatans and sophists. 

Preferences and Electoral Strangeness

One of the more peculiar aspects of the Australian electoral system is the "preference swap" arrangements that, like under the table deals, have an insidious influence on the outcome. I will explain this electoral quirk briefly. At Federal elections, voters have two options on the Senate ballot: vote one candidate "group" above the line, or vote all candidates, from one to whatever, below the line. In New South Wales, there are over 100 candidates, and to vote below the line, you must number every single candidate (although, there is an exception, where you need only number 90% of candidates below the line to cast a valid ballot). Needless to say, most voters vote 1 above the line. This has the consequence of, effectively, giving your vote to the party you voted for to distribute as they see fit. The caveat being they have to tell us, the voting public, just how that distribution will take place. That is, they must provide "preference flows" in advance of the election.

This past weekend, the Senate preference flows were released; and there were some very unusual preference swaps. Minor parties routinely "swap" preferences so as to maximise their chances of election. Normally, you would assume parties would swap preferences with ideologically sympathetic parties; there are some notable cases where this is, indeed, the case. There are, however, other cases where bizarre preferencing has taken place. Two are worth noting: The Australian Sex and the WikiLeaks Party.

The Sex Party has preferenced the racist One Nation party against the more ideologically sympathetic Greens Party, while the WikiLeaks Party that has preferenced the Shooters Party and the racist Australia First Party ahead of the Greens Party. WikiLeaks and the Sex Party have more in common with the Greens than the other parties mentioned, which makes it bizarre that two ostensibly "libertarian" parties (that is to say, "social" libertarian) have preferenced right-wing parties ahead of their left-wing cohorts. This may be evidence of cynical preference swapping, or spite towards a more prominent left-wing party.

The "defence" provided by the WikiLeaks and Sex Party was galling. The former attributed an "administrative error" to the absurd choice, while the Sex Party offered meekly that they "had to put One Nation somewhere!" Which is true; all parties must allocate full preferences, all 110 of them. The question remains unanswered, however, as to why they put them ahead of a more sympathetic party, like the Greens. It is possibly just cynical preferencing, which is entirely acceptable: we have a system that allows parties to swap preferences, or make preference deals, and all parties are free to do so. If that is the case, however, then they could at least be honest about it. Attempting to obfuscate their true intentions is electoral cowardice.

One could argue, and it has been argued, that these other parties are unlikely to inherit the Sex Party's or WikiLeaks' votes. If that is the case, then it makes it even more ridiculous to preference them ahead of the Greens; it has caused needless consternation among likely voters for those parties. What is really taking place is a gamble. The two parties in question are gambling on the order of elimination, hoping to pick up votes from right-wing minor parties ahead of the Greens. It is, of course, acceptable to want to beat other parties, even parties that are broadly sympathetic. The problem is, however, that sometimes electoral gambles backfire. 2004 in Victoria is a case in point. Family First candidate Steve Fielding was elected to the Senate on Labor and Democrat preferences. The latter two parties had preferenced against the Greens in that state; as a result, an adversarial party was elected as opposed to a sympathetic one.

Other parties have been more principled in the preferencing. The Secular Party has stuck to a sympathetic flow (on a personal note, their preference flow in New South Wales is closest to my below the line vote); while the Pirate Party took a more democratic line, allowing their members to vote on the preference order. Perhaps the strangest preference flow comes from the Shooters Party, which is, quite simply, all over the place and is, at present, unfathomable (at least to this observer).

There are two points I will make in conclusion. First, these kinds of shenanigans have only strengthened my support for Optional Preferential Voting (which would eliminate these very shenanigans!); second, it is ridiculous for minor political parties to preference against their sympathies. The Senate is so finely balanced that counter-intuitive preferencing can throw the Senate out of kilter for up to six years. If the gamble some of these parties have taken backfires, it could lead to antithetical policy directions that undermine their own agenda, and the agenda of progressive politics more broadly.

Molly and Sam (draft)

Sam came home late, the lamplight on his dressing table was still on, just as he left it that morning before heading off to work, just as he had the night before that. He’d worked late every night that week; it seemed the lamplight had been on all that time, there to greet the streetlights when Sam got home, and there to wish them goodnight as he left for work. His bed was unmade; his dressing gown on the floor.

But something was amiss: the telephone at his bedside was also on the floor. He didn’t knock it off. In fact, he hadn’t used it in six months. A frosty breeze was in the process of cooling his whole apartment; his bedroom was just a few degrees shy of the outside cold. The sun had only set an hour before. He traced the cool wind to the kitchen. The sink was cold to the touch, as was the fridge door; his bare feet on the kitchen floor confirmed that a window must be open nearby. The kitchen/dining room window was open, a couple of inches. The smoke, he thought. The smoke in the morning, his head out the window to keep the smell out. It was a pointless ritual because the whole apartment stank.

He had left the window open while he was out, but he couldn’t be sure if it were just today, or the whole week. Moving through the house, he turned on every light: the kitchen/dining room, the lounge room, the bedroom, and the toilet lights. A cupboard was open in the kitchen; a wooden chair was overturned; six empty bottles were scattered about the floor, a speaker for his television set with them. This isn’t how he had left the apartment, he thought. He moved quickly back to his bedroom and, throwing away the blankets of his bed, he dropped to his knees, then bent under the bed. He emerged, with wriggles and groans, with a shoe box, the lid still intact. Dishevelled from the mild exertion he rolled to a seated position, his back against his bed. He furrowed his brow as he lifted the lid: all the letters were there. Every one of them; he counted. His heavy breath eased. He looked up; the clinking of two bottles from the lounge room had brought his heavy breathing back. Tucking the shoe box under his arm, he crawled awkwardly to the lamplight, turning it off, then crawled towards the door, lying prone on his belly. His breathed whistled through his nose; he was sure it was loud enough to hear from the other room. He couldn’t stop. He breathed in deep and coughed.

He held his breath for five seconds, trying to be silent, to hear what was happening. Another clink. Slowly, he rose to his knees; he planted his free hand to brace himself, then extended one leg. He paused, stopped breathing; he could hear nothing. He placed the shoe boxed on the floor, and slide it towards the bed; with sharp, deep breaths he stood up, fist clenched, his eyes adjusting to the light. He mouthed the words, “one” – “two” – “three.” He ran through his bedroom door down the short corridor to the lounge room/kitchen/dining room area, growling first, erupting into a deep-throated yell. He stood prepared to fight, prepared to be struck – nothing.

“Where are you – cunt.” he yelled. His fist still clenched, held up in a defensive pose. He paused, his nose whistling. He heard a squeak and a clatter. The kitchen! But he could see nothing; all the lights were on. Nothing. No shadow. “Who’s there?” he said, with a wrinkled nose, stepping slowly toward the kitchen. He heard another noise: plastic tapping against plastic. “Molly?” he whispered. Meow. “Mol-ly!” a little ginger cat slid bashfully from behind the kitchen counter. Meow. “Molly.” He cracked his fingers, walked over, and picked up the young ginger cat with both hands, placing her on the counter. Closing his eyes, he brought his face to hers; she head-butted him and he laughed. She purred. He stood there for some time has she head-butted him twice more.

Sam picked up Molly again and carried her to his bedroom, turning the light back on he walked in and sat on the bed. She walked all over his unmade bed, purring and sniffing furiously. He bent over and picked up the shoe box on the floor, sitting it next to him. Molly came over and sniffed inside; she sneezed. He laughed. He scratched her chin, her eyes closed as she tilted her head backward. With his free hand he took out a letter from the shoe box. He opened it, then paused, stopped scratching Molly’s head, at which she opened her eyes and questioned him brushing her head against the letter. “I wrote these ten years ago; she kept them all – then gave them back.” He smiled sadly. He took a breath and sighed. “Dear Molly,” he read out loud.

The Defence of Poetry in the Modern World: A Proposal

It has largely become a cliché in the discussion of poetry, of its moral and social merits, to address the great Platonic rejection of the art from any ideal state of being. Poets were kicked out of the Republic, and for millennia they have held a grudge. Poets “know” intuitively the social and moral importance of their art, the odd outlandish remark punctuating the point: “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” Shelley announces. The emphasis, one suspects, is on unacknowledged with a touch of agitation. As a result of Plato’s rough treatment, there has grown the tradition of the “defence” of poetry, but it seems no acknowledgement of poetry’s importance is yet forthcoming.

But can poetry’s modern obscurity and disfavour really be attributed to an ancient philosopher? The problem that poetry faces today is not philosophical, but perhaps rather economical. Poetry has always suffered from a lack of money and popular appeal; as Robert Frost says, “there is no money in poetry and no poetry in money.” Poetry is forever on the defence because it has a limited audience; it seems it has always had a limited audience, with few exceptions. We try to teach it in school, and perhaps this is where the problem lies. Equally as problematic, in the contemporary context, poetry cannot contend with the hyperstimulation of modern technology and entertainment.

Poetry has remained largely unchanged; the biggest change it has ever endured is the great leap from the oral to written form. The latter, of course, retains a connection with the former. Modern technology, however, has accelerated at such pace that our lives and or experiences are unimaginably different to what to what they were two or three generations ago. Poetry, to be sure, is an ancient art, if not the most ancient, and this is perhaps why we so often return to that first great rejection. We must not overlook the possibility, however, that society may have just past us by. This is the existential threat that poetry faces, and it is up to poets not only to resist this nihilism, but to assert its positive presence in society. More than just poets, it is up to thinkers and theorists and poetry’s small but loyal coterie of sympathisers to defend poetry.

But, does poetry actually need “defending”? Surely, there will always be readers of poetry. The internet has opened up the lines of communication between human beings across great distances more than any other invention; it has taken the inventions of language and the written word into a new dimension. There are numerous online poetry publications, as well as online communities of poets where their art can be shared and discussed. While there is still little money in poetry, it doesn’t seem to be any worse off in Information Age.

Poets still practice their art freely; readers still read, and theorists still theorise. Students still hate poetry, and teachers still don’t help. The question “what is poetry?” however, also remains unanswered. Poetry, for many, still remains a mystery; the mysteries of rhyme, metre, free verse, even the social and moral purpose of poetry, are vexatious for many. Or, perhaps, poetry slows life and the mind down to a pace at which it must consider things at depth, and this is frustrating in the flittering age of the internet. Does anybody really want to think anymore when knowledge is just a Google search away? Importantly, does anybody need to think the way in which poetry compels us anymore?

Poetry must always find and assert its relevance in any given time period; it is no different today. Poets have an obligation to their craft not only to find its contemporary niche, but to expand that niche and seek acknowledgement. This is achieved as much through the practice of poetry as through imparting the practice to others, creatively and pedagogically. Understanding what poetry is requires a sustained engagement by practitioners and theorists alike in order to uncover and convey the mysteries of poetry to those both inside and outside the coterie of poetry.

Understanding poetry is not the same as understanding other arts. Poetry is itself about understanding, about metaphor and meaning-making. Poetry can make us think deeply, and challenge our cognitive capacity; a good poem will always punish a lazy reader, but reward an attentive one. Understanding poetry, answering the question “what is poetry?” is a complex matter that has wracked the minds of poets, theorists, critics, and philosophers since Plato. It may, then, have been a fundamental misunderstanding of poetry that led to Plato’s rash decision. But we can only assume.

How then is poetry to be explained? Perhaps more importantly, how is poetry to be explained so as to attract more readers? Poetry, after all, relates to a fundamental process of thinking; indeed, poetry turns us back towards that process of meaning-making like no other art. To understand poetry, then, is to understand meaning-making at its most fundamental level. The challenge for poets and poetic thinkers alike is to demonstrate this vital dimension of poetry. This is a theoretical problem as much as a practical problem; as much as a pedagogical problem as it is a critical problem.

*

The relationship between poetic practice and theory is an important intersection that can shed light on our understanding of poetry, but that relationship is also problematic. There is no comprehensive theory of poetry, but countless parochial ones. Every poet has a few theories that might explain their use of a favourite metaphor or trope; every theorist has a theory by which to explain why their favourite poet is particularly special. There may be a danger, then, that theory is just a side industry or a curiosity, so much self-justificatory or self-congratulatory “padding.” What, then, is the relationship between practice and theory? Does poetic practice even need theory? What purposed does the latter serve to the former?

It is, perhaps, too glib to suggest that the theory of poets is self-serving, equally so with theorists and critics. The attempt to understand poetry is an ongoing effort to which every poet and theorist adds his or her voice and ideas. The question, however, must be asked, what value does theory have in relation to the practice of poetry. Can theory ever explain poetry? Can practice ever be used to prove theory? Do poets write to a theory, or does theory come ex post facto?

Poets, like Wordsworth, Shelley, Eliot, and Brodsky, have contributed just as significantly to poetic theory as much as practice. But we must ask what the relationship between their theory and practice is. In what way, for instance, is Eliot’s notion of the “objective correlative” at work in The Waste Land? Equally importantly, we must also ask what the relationship between the theoretical insights of poets is. And further, can we apply the insights of one poet to the works of another? Can Philip Larkin’s notion of the “emotional concept” be applied Robert Frost’s “Death of the Hired Man”? Is there any value in such comparative analysis? Will this get us any closer to understanding what poetry is?

We have been trying to understand poetry – to answer the question “what is poetry?” – since at least Aristotle; since Plato, we have been “defending” it against misunderstanding. There is a long tradition of theoretical defences and explications of poetry, which can be mined for convergent insights. “Delight,” for instance, or “wisdom” (or “knowledge,” or “learning”) are recurrent concepts in the defence of poetry. The goal of poetry, as Sidney succinctly puts it, is “to teach and delight.” “A poem” Frost says concurring, “begins in delight and ends in wisdom.” For Aristotle, the delight, or pleasure, originates in mimesis; for Plato, the sin of poetry consists in the wrong kind of teaching it imparts through mimesis. Is it possible to explain the delight and teaching of poetry in defence against Plato’s accusations?

Our understanding of the human body and brain is of such an advanced nature that we may someday soon map human thought with high fidelity. Soon, we may be able to map the poetic experience inside the brain and see poetic delight; we might be able to see the benefits of poetry. This might be considered a threat, the unravelling of yet another rainbow. What are the implications of our growing cognitive and neurological understanding of human thought and experience for poetic theory and practice? To what extent should poets embrace technology? And how might our understanding of the human body and brain be incorporated into our understanding of poetry?

Perhaps a new “defence of poetry” would be characterised by the re-evaluation of poetry in light of new scientific knowledge. As knowledge and technology evolves, society changes; as society changes, so does its relationship to its artists, including its poets. The poet’s niche must be carved anew. The rise of technology and scientific knowledge can be seen to throw into stark relief the relationship between poetic practice and theory, in part because science and technology have changed how we relate to each other. Poetry, the “most ancient” of arts, connects us to our history and our origins; how we reconcile it with our technology-driven future may be the most important question of all.  

"Voting For": Against Electoral Cowardice

There's no such thing as a "vote against" a party or candidate; there is only a "vote for." You must vote for someone. To vote is an inherently positive thing; it has no negative or negating qualities. It is, as such, disingenuous to encourage others to vote against a party or candidate; it is patently not what occurs in the act of voting. The tension within this for/against dichotomy is most acute in two-party electoral systems. To vote against one party is, to put it simplistically, to vote for the other party. The peculiarities of the Australian electoral further exacerbate this for/against dichotomy.

At the Federal level, compulsory preferential voting is used. To put it briefly, every candidate on the ballot must be numbered, meaning that, even if you don't "vote 1" for either of the major parties, you must put one before the other in the number sequence or your vote doesn't count. So you end up having to vote Coalition or Labor in the end if you want your vote to count at all. I'm not going to debate the merits of the electoral system here, but the system highlights the importance of understanding that to vote is an inherently positive act; positive, that is, in that it must be given to someone (a party or candidate), it is never taken away. Mathematically speaking, voting is an act of addition, not subtraction.

I say it is disingenuous to encourage a misunderstanding of the act of voting, but I would go further and argue that it is a form of cowardice. Recently, the Sydney Telegraph used its front page to call for the Labor party to be kicked out, the title screamed "Kick This Mob Out!" (Read related story here.) Other pundits have expressed a similar sentiment. But a vote against Labor must be a vote for the Coalition, yet it is not often couched in such explicit terms. Perhaps it is out of fear of losing credibility by explicitly endorsing a party or candidate, a vain attempt at retaining some degree of objectivity. Once you endorse a party or candidate everything you say subsequently will be viewed through that prism; not only that, such an endorsement is an acknowledgement that your subsequent words will and can be viewed through that prism. There is no defence or deflection once you have acknowledged your bias, and this can be seen as giving up a strategic advantage.

It is cowardice to encourage a vote against a party, especially in a system where voting is compulsory and the form of voting is as onerous as ours. It is no bad thing to support or endorse a particular party, but when it is obfuscated in the manner that it so often is, behind outrage and indignation directed towards that other party, it is dishonest. If you wish to support a party then positively endorse them, because that is ultimately what voting is: a binding endorsement of a particular party, not a dis-endorsement of any other party.

Cory Bernardi Vs. Western Civilisation

According to this article,

THE pillars of Western society are under threat, and Liberal Senator Cory Bernardi has a plan to prop them up.   

      
Unfortunately, when Cory Bernardi and people like him talks about "Western society" or "Western Civilisation," they invariably mean white, Christian, straight, and patriarchal. It is an extremely limiting view of a complex historical movement. And Western Civilisation is a movement; it has travelled a long way from what we commonly take is its origins. It is not a static state of affairs, and this is the great mistake made by conservative thinkers and politicians.

When I talk of Western Civilisation I mean the more than 2500 years of intellectual and cultural change; I mean a reverence and re-engagement with what, for pragmatic reasons, we take as the zero-point of Western Civilisation: Classical Greece; I mean the Dark Ages and the closing of the Western mind, the attitudes of which time we still seem to struggle against; I mean the Renaissance; I mean the Enlightenment; I mean the Scientific, Industrial, and Democratic Revolutions. In short, I mean the 2500-plus years of the struggle of reason and the imagination against prejudice and oppression. That is Western Civilisation.

Bernardi-ism, like so much that is inane about conservatism, is grounded upon a misreading of history prompted by personal grievance, the loss of aristocracy. Western Civilisation is about progress and self-criticism; the Bernardian world-view is grounded on the anxiety that self-criticism often threatens us with, and it replaces self-criticism with self-certainty. The "six f-words" at the heart of Bernardi's plan - Faith, Family, Flag, Free enterprise, Federation and Freedom - are emblematic of this self-certainty. What they are also emblematic of is the vague simplifications of an anxious ideology; it is an ideology that requires homogeneity and stasis to survive. Western Civilisation is about change, progress, and adaptation. In short, Western Civilisation evolves, and that is its greatest strength. Conservatism, such as Bernardi's version, in asserting "traditional values," does not take a proper account of Western history.

Pronominal Poetics: "This Is How It Goes."

In adopting the poetic stance we adopt the posture of reading the poem (and there is a definite posture to reading); the articulatory or verbal gestures of the poem become our own. The standing is also a pointing or an indicating. As the poem nods or winks or grins or raises a subtle eyebrow, so do we, the reader. This is how it goes.

“This” is a pronoun; it points to where it stands. This is where it stands. This is how it goes. Not “that,” which points to the past or to some other place. This is the present, for the poetic experience is always in the present. When we adopt the poetic stance we are always adopting it here and now. If “this” is the poetic experience, then “it” is the poem.

The poem is a pronominal object that points elsewhere; it stands for the complex of sounds and associations that constitute the poetic experience; in essence, the poem is pronominal for the poetic experience. The poem, the “it,” points to “you” and “me” the reader, and it points to the poetic experience that you and I will have. “This” is the experience of “it.” This is how it goes. It is an experience.

“Is” is the pure copula, connecting the subject to its predicate, connecting “this” to “how it goes.” The pure copula has no content except to signify existence, that “this” and “it” are connected. But “this” is how it goes. “This” is the “how,” the “how” of “it.” “How” is a conjunction. “How” connects the pronoun “this” to the pronoun “it” and its existence is asserted by the pure copula “is.” “How” is the “manner in which” of “this,” how it goes.

“Goes” is the verb, simple present tense and intransitive. “To go” means to move, to go from one place to another. “This,” the poetic experience, is “how,” the manner in which, “it,” the poem, goes. This is how it goes. But “it” goes nowhere but within the reader, for whom “this” is the experience of “it,” here and now, the manner in which the poem moves within you and me.

In adopting the poetic stance, we adopting the standing of the poem, its posture, the way it stands in relation to other things, what “it” is about. “This” is how the poem goes about being about what it is within the reader’s adoption of the poetic stance. The reader stands for the poem by adopting its stance, and what the poem stands for becomes what the reader stands for. This is how it goes.

Poem: [Poetry should be just a little sexual]

Poetry should be just a little sexual;

It rolls around the mouth, across the tongue;

The fingertips outstretch and poised; the lips

Puckered, pursed, now pouting to pronounce.

What’s not to be aroused by there? The sounds

Of sweet love-making bound up in the mouth and hands.

Political Contagion and the Alternating Trend in State and Federal Politics in Australia

It's often heard after a State election: "this election was a referendum on the Federal government!" Surely, you've heard it at least once. There's an underlying premise to this statement, however, that needs to be brought to the surface. The premise is this: the party in power at a Federal level has lost the State election in question. This is actually a common occurrence, and has been over the last 40 years. The party in power at a Federal level usually loses elections at a State level. This was particularly pronounced under John Howard.

There is a clear trend between State and Federal election results to suggest there is some kind of contagion that influences the political cycle in this country. Indeed, I would say it is central to the modern political cycle. Our "Federalist" system provides a bulwark, however malignant it may sometimes get, against the excesses of the Commonwealth. The trend of swapping parties at the State level may simply be an expression of the general anti-incumbency felt throughout the electorate. But I'm getting speculative at this point. Let's talk about trends. The modern trend of alternating the parties at a State in contrast with the Federal level can be seen to start during the Whitlam era.

The nation had just emerged from 24-odd years of conservative rule. The State-Federal alternating cycle was somewhat in effect during the Menzies era; with the exception of South Australia up until the mid-60s, whose electoral cycle was severely stunted by entrenched gerrymandering; a similar fate would befall Queensland at a later date. Menzies' unprecedented success was assisted by the Labor Party's internal problems, surrounding Communism in particular, which resulted in the rise of the Democratic Labor Party, who helped the Menzies Liberal Party retain power for so long.

I hold to the view that Australian politics is largely governed by a cycle; we have two major parties and every now and then they swap seats. This cyclical process is a common feature of two-party electoral systems around the world. The best a political party can hope for is to extend their time in the big chairs, and contract the time their opponents get. In Australia, there is a general trend to give the governing party at least two terms in office. Whitlam only served the equivalent of one term (three years), but did, in fact, win two elections (1972 and 1974). Generally speaking, we can say that the party that wins office from opposition always retains government at the next election.

With few exceptions, Whitlam being perhaps the most high profile, the trend in Australia politics has been towards stability, and, as such, longevity. The only other one-termer, since the Deakin-Fischer-Cook merry-go-round (we might include Hughes here, but he was a merry-go-round unto himself!), was James Scullin's Labor government during the Great Depression. Scullin's government was actually shorter than Whitlam's. The alternating State/Federal trend, however, is really a product of Menzies' longevity, which is why we may take as a starting point the rise and fall of the Whitlam Labor government: Whitlam's victory marks the end of the old cycle.

The trend, however, begins to take shape during the Fraser period; State Labor governments start to emerge toward the back-end of that period. Neville Wran's New South Wales Labor government, which won office in 1976, is the major exception here. Tasmania, under John Bannon, would remain a Labor State for almost all of the Fraser period. It wouldn't be until 1982, however, that the remaining Liberal states would fall in quick succession. Queensland, during this period, is another exception because of what is often referred to as the "Bjelkemander." Although the gerrymandering in Queensland had begun before Joh Bjelke-Peterson's assumption to the Premiership.

During the Hawke-Keating era Liberal governments start to emerge "mid-term" in the late-80s with State Liberal/Coalition victories, starting with Nick Greiner in New South Wales in 1988, and then in quick succession with Jeff Kennett in Victoria in 1992, Ray Groom in Tasmania also in 1992, Richard Court in Western Australia in 1993, and Dean Brown in South Australia also in 1993. Queensland at this time is still an exception; in 1989 Wayne Goss will break more than 30 years of conservative rule. It won't be for another 10 years before Queensland's State results start to reflect the alternating trend.

During the Howard years, this trend becomes more pronounced. Bob Carr would win in New South Wales in 1995, the year prior to Howard taking office (Carr's electoral success is partly explained by the collapse of the Fahey Liberal government); then in 1998 Tasmania and Queensland would fall to Jim Bacon and Peter Beattie, respectively; in 1999 Victoria would fall to Steve Bracks, with Western Australia 2001 to Geoff Gallop and South Australia in 2002 to Mike Rann. The Liberal/Coalition would not win another State election until 2008 in Western Australia, the year after the Howard government fell, and this was, technically, a hung parliament.

Subsequent to Kevin Rudd's victory in 2007, Labor would win State elections in Queensland in 2009, under Anna Bligh, and in South Australia under Mike Rann, and Tasmania under David Bartlett in 2010. Although the Tasmania election was, technically, a hung parliament. The Coalition, however, would win State victories in 2010 in Victoria under Ted Ballieu; 2011 in New South Wales under Barry O'Farrell; and 2012 in Queensland under Campbell Newman. The last two were particularly massive victories. Colin Barnett would also win a second term in Western Australia in 2013.

It is important to note two things about this period: first, Kevin Rudd would be replaced in 2010 as Prime Minister by Julia Gillard; and second, the 2010 Federal election would result in a hung parliament, the first federally since the Second World War. This event can be seen to have had an effect on the results at a State level, particularly in New South Wales, Queensland and Western Australia. However, it should be remembered that New South Wales had been governed by the Labor Party for 16 years, while Queensland had been governed, with the exception of the Borbidge government from 1996-98, had been under Labor for 20-odd years.

The longevity of State governments must be given more significance than any contagion from the Federal arena. Having said that, the alternating trend is not only clear but growing more pronounced. It is widely argued that Howard's protracted presence was a millstone for State Liberal Parties. It is further argued that Labor's currently "toxic" presence at a Federal level is damaging the prospects of State Labor. This is perhaps most obvious in Western Australia, where a commensurately popular Labor leader not only failed to win government, but actually lost seats. It should be noted, Colin Barnett is also relatively well-liked, and the general rule of thumb that governments get a second-term also applies.

It is Labor's toxic Federal influence that will ultimately give the Liberal Party dominance across both levels of government. Should Labor lose government in September, as seems likely, it will be followed in 2014 by likely losses in Tasmania and South Australia. Again, it should be remembered that both these states have been governed by Labor for more than a decade. Labor will be without a Federal or State government (not counting Territories) in 2014. The Victorian State election is due in late 2014; this will be a winnable election, but the contagion may not have dissipated by this time. Conversely, Tony Abbott's contagion may not yet have set in. The State is also, technically in a hung parliament, and the Liberal party recently replaced a first-term Premier. It will be the election to watch in 2014. But, of course, we're getting ahead of ourselves.

What can we take from these facts? There are a couple of things: first, governments tend to get a second-term. Second, the alternating trend doesn't tend to quicken until the second-term of a Federal government. That is to say, when States fall, then tend to fall in quick succession, but they don't tend to fall in the first-term of a new Federal government. This latter point, however, was more pronounced under the Hawke-Keating government than under the subsequent Howard government.

It is highly unlikely, as such, that Labor will win in either New South Wales (in 2015), or Queensland (also likely in 2015, all other things being equal), and the contagion from Federal Labor, or the general alternating trend, may be too strong to save them in Tasmania and South Australia, even in Victoria. Western Australia is not due for another State election until 2017, which would be the theoretical second-term for an Abbott government.

One can certainly argue that there is no strict causal link between Federal and State elections; in general, I think that's correct. But it would be naïve to suggest that there is no causal link at all; it may, of course, be a correlative link. The alternating trend does not indicate either way. The trend, however, is there. And that trend, at the very least, is indicative of an electoral cycle that encompasses both State and Federal governments. Can any predictions be made based on this trend? Sure, but only general, long-term ones.

Based on current events, the Labor party will be in the Federal wilderness from September, and based on the "second-term principle" are unlikely to return to the big chairs until 2019 at the earliest. Labor is also unlike to return to power in Queensland and New South Wales until at least 2018 and 2019, respectively; the margins in both these states are just too big to unseat two first-term governments in 2015. Victoria remains the only winnable State between now and 2017, but Labor would need to unseat a first-term government, and even with the Baillieu-Napthine debacle, that would still be very difficult. Tasmania and South Australia will likely fall in 2014, and won't be re-contested until 2018.

2018-19, then, is the period where any real resurgence will come; there is also a convergence of elections around this time, and, what is more, a Federal Coalition government will be in its second-term, as will most State governments. Now, I believe that ultimately the political cycle will prevail; eventually, governments will change hands. It is a question for the Liberals how long they can extend the cycle, and for Labor how quickly they can contract the Liberal's time in office. Neither is fully in control of events that may benefit them or adversely affect them, and neither is fully in control of their political capital.

The Labor party, as such, will be in the wilderness for sometime. Hopefully, they use that time to reconnect with voters, and engage a bit of internal party reform; otherwise, they may find themselves in the wilderness again very quickly after the alternating trend eventually "flips" in their favour again. That this Labor government will be the first government not to win a third election since Whitlam will cause a disruption in the alternating trend. Since Whitlam, every government has gotten at least a third-term, and this is the major contributing factor to the trend. If any in-coming Liberal government fails to go beyond two-terms, then the trend will change, for at least a decade, to one of corresponding, and not alternating.

This is all hypothetical, of course, but it bears remembering that politics is not just about today, or the next election; our politics, just like our lives, exists in a continuum, and understanding the rhythms and patterns of that continuum is useful for contextualising individual events or phenomena.

Democratic Tension and the Australian Electoral System

The illusion of democracy is that it presents us with distinct choices; it does not. There will always be a ruling class which excludes the alternative options enough to limit the range of choices so as to render the impact of choice negligible. The only the complete absence of political parties could ensure genuine choice, but that is an impossibility. Human beings have always grouped together for mutual benefit; tribalism has many forms, from the primitive, to the symbolic, to the political. The essence of democracy is the contest between at least two tribes or partisan groups amongst the ruling class.

One might argue, then, that the ideal state, the state that most approximates the diversity of choice, is a multiparty system. This raises the problem of the tension between stability and diversity. In the absence of genuine choice, democracy resonates with the tension between the stability of governance and the diversity of representation. Multiparty democracies are notoriously unstable, while two-party democracies are notoriously fickle and stifling of difference. In the case of the former, governing alliances risk being undermined by fatal compromise between its participants (fatal, at least, to one of the parties), while the latter often promotes homogeneity, stifling internal dissent for the sake of stability.

There is no ideal circumstance in which parties or politicians come to power where human beings are concerned. At best, we can hope to manage the competing interests of the parties and the tributary groups they primarily represent through keeping them in a perpetual state of tension. In multiparty democracies, such tension is problematic because it may prove to be in a particular party's interest not to engage or compromise with other parties, thereby causing instability in the ever-fragile democratic state. In the two-party system it is almost mandatory not to engage or compromise with the only other competitor in the hope of gaining an outright majority (thereby rendering compromise unnecessary).

Whatever the system, an element of risk must be involved. Democracy is inherently risky; political parties must risk their enduring success, while the nation itself must risk social cohesion for the sake of democratic freedom. The U.S. electoral system represents the worst kind of two-party system, while many European nations, such as Greece, highlight the problems with a multiparty democracy. The U.S. system is moribund, remaining essentially unchanged for more than two centuries; the intransigence of the two major parties is entrenched, and, arguably, representative of a broader social divide in that country. Greece's electoral system is unwieldy, and often results in unstable governing coalitions, a pattern frequently repeated across Europe. Such irregular governance, it can be argued, has contributed to the economic instability of European nations, such as Greece, Italy, and Spain. This, obviously, is a far more complex point than my over-simplification.

The Australian electoral system, I believe, manages to navigate the pitfalls of either extreme relatively well - relatively well. Our system has evolved since Federation, usually with bipartisan and popular support. We have a House of Representatives elected along the lines of the Westminster tradition, as single-member electorates, while our Senate is elected proportionally, as multi-member electorates. Our Senators, furthermore, are elected to "double terms," twice as long as the term of an MP in the Lower House. The particulars of the electoral methods employed can, indeed, be debated, but what is important is the difference in the way the houses are constituted.

In the U.S. the two Houses of Congress are elected in roughly the same manner, with a few variations. Senators there are elected in a similar manner to Congressmen, with two exceptions. First, Senators serve a six-year term, not a two-year term. Second, there are two Senators per state, although Senators from the same state are never elected simultaneously, except in rare occurrences where there is a casual vacancy and the law in that particular state dictates a "special election" to fill the position (usually, casual vacancies are filled at the Governor's discretion). The Senate and the House tend to resemble each other, with the Senate "swinging" a little more slowly than the House from one side to the other.

As is evident, the U.S. Congress is ineffective, partly because of how it is constituted. There are two-parties, and there is no real impetus for compromise; they can just play games and wait for their turn in government. The U.S. Government has, in fact, closed down more than once because of the intransigence between the various arms of government. There is no mechanism for resolving deadlock within Congress, or between Congress and the White House. The two major parties in the U.S. never have to really risk anything; the only thing at stake is who controls the Treasury, and eventually voters get tired of the governing party and just want a change - sometimes "it's time" and there isn't much you can do about it.

The same kind of inertia does exist, to an extent, in Australia. We have two parties who swap seats every now and then. Our system does, however, allow for alternative parties to make their case. There is a rich history of minor political parties changing the political landscape in this country. I have discussed them to some degree here. Even minor political parties that didn't quite take off have been able to influence the discourse. The possibility of winning seats in the Senate (even in the Legislative Councils of a number of states) is enough to promote the third-party alternative.

While most third-parties never win seats, their presence is central to maintaining the democratic tension in our electoral system. Third-parties pose a threat to the major parties. Both major parties have their voting blocs splintered, or threatened with such, from time to time. At present, the Labor vote is effectively splintered by the Greens, although with compulsory preferential voting the worst effects of this are mitigated. Both major parties have, in the past, been splintered from within, but both remain threatened from without as well. Whatever one may think of Bob Brown, Bob Katter, Pauline Hanson, or even Clive Palmer, they represent the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, of the threat the hegemony of the two major parties. Whether their disruptive politics can endure, however, is a different question. Hanson's rise and fall is a case in point.

Other parties, such as the Australian Sex Party, the Liberal Democratic Party, even the Wikileaks Party, represent the vibrant anti-incumbency that our system both enables and needs to maintain the tension. One may cast these minor players aside as "atmosphere," contributing colour and movement to the main game, but it is dangerous to be so flippant, given our political history. What is more, roughly one in five voters vote for a minor party in the Senate; in 2010, that rose to almost 30%, whether this "peak" is repeated at the next election is debatable.

It isn't just the major parties that are "at risk," if that's even the right term. Minor parties are, almost by definition, always at risk, and never more so than when they achieve political success. The balance of power in the Senate is a powerful but perilous position; in its 60-odd year history, it has seen off two "major" minor parties who attained to its influence. The DLP and the Democrats were both punished for their perceived indiscretions while holding the balance. What is perilous for minor parties like these when they do attain a level of influence is that they are more vulnerable to the consequences of compromise. The Democrats, for instance, suffered greatly for negotiating with the Howard Coalition government on the GST. The DLP were obliterated in 1974 for their intransigence towards the Whitlam government. It is hard to say if the Greens will suffer a similar fate to their predecessors. Minor parties are not as robust as their major counterparts. Put simply, they have no base that will vote for them no matter what they do - this may be the exception that saves the Greens, only time will tell.

What will be interesting about the upcoming election will be the influence of some of the more high-profile minor parties (mentioned above). I suspect that the third-party vote will exceed 25%, at least on the Senate ballot. With two deeply unpopular leaders, and two political parties that are descending to cartel-status, the upcoming election will actually be a test of voters' political comprehension, as well as of their willingness to act on their diminishing perception of the two major parties. There's no point complaining about the Big Two if you aren't willing to put your vote on the line. Labor and the Coalition will only respond to voter disaffection if there is a risk of losing those voters. The forthcoming election is not so much a test of the two leaders - neither is wanted - but rather a test of voters and the tensile strength of our democracy.

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 3): Larkin and Brodsky, The Face of the Poem

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 1): Eliot, Theory and Criticism

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 2): Eliot and Brodsky, the Experience of Poems

Note: this thread has taken on a life of its own. The original intention of this thread was to develop a seminar paper on the Philosophy of Poetry that I would deliver in July; however, it has become apparent that this series of blogs is far more in-depth than a seminar paper. I will continue to explore the notion of a philosophy of poetry here, and hopefully generate further insight into my overall research. As such, this will be an ongoing enterprise. The format will remain the same as a continuous text. Each individual post is not a discrete unity.

 

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 3): Larkin and Brodsky, The Face of the Poem

The conversation, then, in Brodsky’s estimation, is between the reader and the poem; “a poem,” it must be remembered, “addresses a man tete-a-tete, entering with him into direct [...] relations.” The poem catalyses in the reader’s mind so that the reader can, indeed, “be like” the poem. Where Eliot refers to this process of getting inside the reader’s head as a catalytic process, Brodsky refers to it as “linguistic osmosis.”

Both poets are referring to the way in which the poet conveys the experience of the meaning-making process to the reader. This is process entails emotion. The British poet, Philip Larkin puts the point directly: “poetry should begin with emotion in the poet, and end with the same emotion in the reader. The poem is simply the instrument of transference.” Elsewhere he explains the process of transference in three stages:

The first [stage] is when a man becomes obsessed with an emotional concept to such a degree that he is compelled to do something about it. What he does is the second stage, namely, construct a verbal device that will reproduce this emotional concept in anyone who cares to read it, anywhere, any time. The third stage is the recurrent situation of people in different times and places setting off the device and re-creating in themselves what the poet felt when he wrote.

The “transference” of the “emotional concept” through the “verbal device” of the poem from poet to reader – not just a single reader but all readers – resonates with Brodsky’s “linguistic osmosis,” but it also resonates with the catalytic metaphor Eliot uses to explain his “Impersonal theory” of the poetic process.

            Brodsky argues that the poetic experience is intensely private, throwing into stark relief “the privateness of the human condition.” It nevertheless is a conversation with the poet, at least through the medium of the poem; for Eliot, the poet is merely a conduit, and it is the poem that stands in his place, conveying emotion through the “objective correlative,” the objects or series of events that encapsulate what Larkin calls the “emotional concept.” The mechanics of the poetic experience, for Larkin, is best facilitated “in silence”:

the reader’s first encounter with the poem must be a silent, active one, an absorption of spelling and stanza arrangement as much as paraphraseable meaning and corrective historical knowledge.

Larkin is making a comparison between reading poetry and hearing it read; he says elsewhere:

Hearing a poem, as opposed to reading it on the page, means you miss so much – the shape, the punctuation, the italics, even knowing how far you are from the end. Reading it on the page means you can go at your own pace, taking it in properly; hearing it means you’re dragged along at the speaker’s own rate, missing things, not taking it in, confusing “there” and “their” and things like that. And the speaker may interpose his personality between you and the poem, for better or worse.

The reader can only be like the poem if the responsibility of re-enacting the meaning-making process is his. We may become curious, Larkin admits, of what the author sounds like:

there comes a moment with any poem that we have really taken to ourselves when we want to hear its author read it. We want to confirm our conviction that he would quicken the pace here, throw away an irony there, or perhaps our curiosity is just for what his voice can add.

This curiosity about the poet’s voice is a natural outcome of what I previously called poetic mimesis; Eliot’s theory of depersonalisation and Brodsky’s linguistic osmosis represent different, but related, facets of poetic mimesis.

            For Brodsky, the curiosity engendered in the reader goes beyond the voice of the poet; it is, for Brodsky, the face of the poet that we become curious about:

In theory, authors’ looks should be of no consequence to their readers: reading is not a narcissistic activity, neither is writing, yet the moment one likes a sufficient amount of a poet’s verse one starts to wonder about the appearance of the writer. This, presumably, has to do with one’s suspicion that to like a work of art is to recognise the truth, or the degree of it, that art expresses. Insecure by nature, we want to see the artist, whom we identify with his work, so that the next time around we might know what truth looks like in reality.

Both Brodsky and Larkin touch upon an essential mimetic component of the poetic experience. However “depersonalised” the poet becomes in the act of poetic meaning-making, the mimetic instinct compels the reader towards this curiosity; the poet is the natural proxy in this experience. It is not the face of the poet, per se, that the reader is curious about, but the face of the poem, the face of meaning-making in general, the human face.

"Can Beauty Ever be Considered a Moral Trait?" Part One: From Venus to Eve



Introduction

 

In this series of blogs I will trace the evolution of the tastes and values surrounding the female nude, from the Venus of Willendorf to Barbie. The purpose of this series of blogs is to show the transformation of tastes and values, and ultimately the politics, that has followed the perception, appreciation, and treatment of the female form. The cultural and aesthetic treatment of the female body has changed over time, and is now a more contest site of meaning than ever before. This, we might call the democratisation of the female body.

 

At no time in history have woman had as much political and aesthetic control over their bodies, although by no means at a level of parity with men. In order to understand this democratisation we need to understand that the tastes and values surrounding the female form are not fixed, that there is a range of influences that contribute to the prevailing tastes and values of a given era that change over time. Unlike during any other era, women are subjective agents (as opposed to objects of discussion) who contribute to the tastes and values surrounding their own form.

 

 

"Can Beauty ever be Considered a Moral Trait?"

 

This was the question posed to my first-year class at university this year for a writing task. It's a decidedly big question, but it's also a very important question outside the abstract domain of the classroom. It is a question that resides at the crossroad of aesthetics and ethics, always a contentious intersection. Contentious because it overlaps with certain areas of interest with gender studies and sexual politics more broadly; in particular, the notion of beauty of a highly contested concept. A woman's beauty, more specifically, can be highly ideological terrain. Nevertheless, I do believe that beauty can be a moral trait, and I will seek to frame this answer to the question here. It is, however, more complicated than a yes/no answer.

 

To try to explain simply, beauty is a moral trait, not in an objective or subjective sense but in an intersubjective sense. Beauty is a moral trait of all the participants involved or complicit in the process whereby beauty is constructed or perceived. That is, beauty is a moral trait not only for those who are considered beautiful but also those who consider them beautiful, the perceiver as well as the perceived; importantly, both can be the same person. I will attempt to explain the nuance of this point.

 

To call beauty, particularly physical beauty, a moral trait raises questions of value and taste. By "taste" I mean the prevailing preferences of a society at any given time; in the context, this refers to the preferred shapes and variations of the female form. Value is construed more broadly: it refers to what is considered important to that society at any given time. I say "at any given time" because tastes and values do change; understanding the process of change is critical to understanding how beauty can be considered a moral trait.

 

What I will focus on here is how the representation of the female form has changed. In particular, I will focus on a few key representations of the female nude. The female nude has historically been laden with meaning, indicative of the values of the era. That is, the aesthetic tastes that surrounds the female nude at any given time are representative of a set of prevailing values of the era. Importantly, those values change from era to era, and are not always related to the same material facts. Let me foreshadow a little to explain: the Gothic nude, the nude of the middle ages, an era of extreme religiosity, depicts the female form in a decidedly non-sexual way, while the nude of Ancient Greece depicts an ideal, almost mathematical form. The pre-historic Venus of Willendorf embodies a different set of values, while modern images of the nude a different set of values again.

 

I will address the different representations as embodying a certain set of historical values; the importance of this point is that the tastes and values surrounding the female body have changed, and that there is no fixed value, as such. The value of the female body is historically situated and not absolute. What is, therefore, moral about beauty pertains to its relative state, meaning the social, economic, and political situation in which the female body exists.

 

 

Prehistory: The Venus of Willendorf

 

It can be argued that the changes in historical tastes and values of the female body constitute an evolution towards the democratisation of the female body, but this is not my goal at present. It is, nevertheless, importantly to keep in mind that the body is never just an image, even in its prehistoric form; it is always a site of political and social significance.

 

The Venus of Willendorf is one of the oldest representations of the human form.

 

 

 

 

 

What you first notice about the Venus are breasts and stomach. On closer inspection you notice that the figure has no discernible face and no arms. It is also noticeable that the Venus has a large posterior. Certain features of the Venus are exaggerated while other features are diminished. The question, of course, must be "why?" One theory, promoted by neuroscientists like V. S. Ramachandran, suggests that the exaggeration of certain features and not others relates to a biological predisposition toward those certain features and not others. This is an evolutionary argument.

 

The exaggeration of the breasts and the stomach, which are pertinent to child-raising, has some resonance. The Venus's physique is not an oddity, the same sorts of exaggerations and minimisations occur in other "Venuses" of the time period, 20,000-25,000 years ago. The traditional interpretation is that the Venus is a fertility symbol, which is a reasonable analysis. Other interpretations, which can be seen as sympathetic to the fertility interpretation, argue that there is a biological imperative that leads to the brain emphasising certain features and not others. This is a evolutionary and neurological interpretation.

 

A proper interpretation must take account of all the features, including the minimised ones; in the case of the Venus of Willendorf, the absence of arms and the minimisation of facial features, which again is common in other Venus figurines. If the brain is, for lack of a better word, programmed to focus on certain features and not others, then there is an argument to be made about the exaggerated features in the Venus. The values expressed in these earliest artistic expressions are neuro-biological, if not evolutionary.  

Antiquity: The Aphrodite of Knidos

The Venus of Willendorf signifies the emergence of art and human culture - the shift from prehistory to history. The female body has not changed in 30,000-odd years; what has changed is the art and culture of the human race. The influence of art and culture on the tastes and values of society, at least in terms of Western art and culture, surrounding the female nude is best illustrated by the Classical - Greco-Roman - treatment of the naked female form. The Greeks were fascinated by mathematics, and mathematical proportions would come to influence even their appreciation of the human body.

 

Importantly, the male nude was held equal to, if not greater than, the female nude in cultural and aesthetic esteem in Greek society. This is an interesting point of different to every other period of Western history, but my focus here is the female form. There is, arguably, an obsession with the male form now, but whether it is comparable to the Greeks' is another question for another time.

 

The female nude is represented through a very particular formula: the distance between the breasts, the distance from the breasts to the navel, and the distance from the navel to the partition of the legs. That is to say, the distance from the breasts to the partition is twice that of the distance between the breasts. This is a mathematical formula that, as Kenneth Clark says, is repeated throughout the classical period. The Aphrodite of Knidos (or Cnidos), attributed to Praxiteles, exemplifies this formula:

 

 

 

The Aphrodite differs markedly from the Venus; the craft of sculpting had obviously greatly improved in 20,000-odd years! That aside, what we notice is, at first glance, is an emphasis on verisimilitude, quite distinct from the exaggerations of the breasts, buttocks, and stomach in the Venus. I say "at first glance" because the proportions are, as I have mentioned, governed by a mathematical ideal, and this is not universally applicable; very few women actually meet the "Classical ideal."

 

The Greek obsession with mathematics goes beyond sculpture and the representation of the human form. There was a mysticism that was attached to mathematics, perhaps best exemplified in the cult of Pythagoras. Mathematics was a lens through which the world could be seen and understood; it must be remembered that Ancient Greece, Classical civilisation, is where many of our most enduring questions about humanity and the universe were first asked.

 

Mathematics represents order and causal structures of meaning. While women were considered second-class citizens (there is no real difference in their political status in Antiquity to the later Gothic, or medieval era), the "idealisation" of form is not misogynistic; both male and female forms had mathematical ideals. The set of value this particular taste represents revolves around proportion and structure. Greek society (I have Athenian society in mind here) was highly structured, socially and politically.

 

Perhaps a more enduring expression of the Greek ideals of structure and organisation than mathematical ideals and mysticism that emerges from Ancient Greece is the form of political organisation known as democracy, which flickered for a brief moment in the 4th century BC, and which would be seen again for millennia. Greek democracy was a complicated system with what Americans would call "checks and balances" programmed into its institutional structure. Although, women were not granted a vote, and, obviously, neither were slaves. Politically and culturally speaking, in ancient Greece there was certain prevailing attitudes towards women and certain minorities that still echo today.

 

 

Medieval Era: Adam and Eve

 

The Greeks revelled in mathematical proportions; they had stumbled upon the fact that everything in the universe could be represented mathematically, though they may have extended the metaphor too far with prescriptive measurements. In the medieval period, representations of the female body took on a different shape. The ideal form of the Greeks, perhaps an exaggeration of proportionality, gives way to a different kind of exaggeration in the Gothic or Medieval period.

 

There are two parts to the Gothic era, early and late. The female (as well as the male) body is noticeably different, although they share the same desexualised essence. The early Gothic body is remarkable in its unremarkable shape with no physiological emphasis of any sort; the "ideal proportion" of the early-Gothic is one of severe under-statement. The early-Gothic period, it must be remembered, is one dominated by the Christian mythology and a pervasive asceticism. The body, in this period, is something to be shunned, not glorified; it is almost always in a state of mortification. The Adam and Eve at Bamberg is a good example of the entirely desexualised nature of the early-Gothic nude.

 

 

 

Adam and Eve are almost caricatures. The body is something to be transcended in this time period. The natural shape of the female form (as well as the male form) is caricatured into near formlessness. Save for two small breasts, the difference between Adam and Eve is negligible.

 

The late-Gothic representation of the female body, on the other hand, is a little more stylised; as such, it is a little more interesting. The late-Gothic nude has two key features: an emphasising of the stomach, and a de-emphasising of the breasts. The exaggeration of the stomach and reduction of the breasts represent a de-sexualisation of the female form and an emphasis on the woman's role as life-giver. The distended stomach always resembles the swollen belly inextricably associated with pregnancy. The swollen breasts that are also often associated with pregnancy are not represented, however.

 

Hugo van der Goes' depiction of Adam and Eve is emblematic of the late-Gothic nude. Kenneth Clark refers to the female nude of this period as "bulb-like," while the men are root-like in form.

 

 

 

 

 The distended stomachs of the Gothic female nude are peculiar from a modern perspective, but it must be remembered that the predominant shape is indicative of the morality of the time. "Eve" is decidedly un-sexual; her body is purely functional. However, it should also be remembered what women represented for the 1500 since the emergence of Christianity: the Fall of Man, as represented in van der Goes' picture. Eve is plucking the apple from the Tree of Knowledge at the insistence of the anthropomorphic snake. It is, perhaps, ironic that the gender that is held responsible for the Fall of Man for her temptation is represented so un-temptingly.

 

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In the next blog, I will focus on representations of the female body from the Renaissance to the 20th Century. In particular, I will look at the works of Giorgione, Titian, Rubens and Renoir, among others. Artists such as these over this period since the 15th century capture broader-ranging and more naturalistic images of the female nude, with an increasing sense of feminine subjectivity and diversity in the subject-matter. As this period progresses, depictions of the female nude are bound less and less by an over-arching moral structure or ideal; depictions of the female nude over this period become more subjective, both in relation to the artist and the female subject herself. This diversification and subjectivisation is an important precursor - empowering as well as problematic - to the realisation of beauty as a moral trait in the modern era.