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.
