Ode to the enduring potential of poetry
Posted: Fri Jan 10, 2014 8:27 am
BARRY HING THE AUSTRALIAN JANUARY 10, 2014 12:00AM
ONE of the many lessons of World War I, which began almost 100 years ago with an assassination in June 1914, is its striking affirmation of the importance and, particularly for now, of the necessity of poetry in daily life.
Indeed, this year's anniversary affords an opportunity to reconnect with the potential of verse, a robust linguistic response to the tedium - which so dominates our lives - of emails, SMS and chat forums as well as the "conversation" of seminars, focus groups and advertising.
Such an instruction from a century ago is far from peculiar, given the catastrophe of the Western Front, unlike the wars that preceded and followed it, created some of the most memorable, if not some of the most meaningful, poetry of the English-speaking world; namely from Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, and a host of others such as Robert Graves and Rupert Brooke, and for which The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, who did not fight in the war, represents something of a full stop with its lament for the West.
Any of us can write and rhyme, conjure up puns, metaphors and witticisms, as well as SMS and tweet, but the result is usually far from what would pass as poetic. What the Great War poets taught was the forcefulness and fullness of the written word, and its ability to respond to what matters, immediately and beyond - in their case, the pervasiveness of sorrow and death - in a lasting way.
More specifically, the elegance of World War I poetry, which is generally bereft of sentimentality and triteness, shows verse is always relevant and stays with us. Owen and Sassoon, for example, are still studied and quoted today, although admittedly often in a perfunctory and misconceived manner.
The significance of poetry to the generation of 1914-18 and its ability to articulate itself in verse, indeed, its preference for it as a form of expression over anything else, were natural and logical, given that they were - as the symbolic last Victorians - educated on a literary and philosophic diet of, among others, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Keats, Tennyson and Kipling and, of course, Homer and Virgil.
And just as relevant for us is the fact that this poetic surge, which took place from around the start of the 19th century to the early 20th, occurred against a backdrop, similar to ours, of the Industrial Revolution - or the Age of Progress - when industry, science and social rights made huge bounds, leading often to unsettling change. This coincidence of poetry and huge change was hardly accidental.
If anything, such a concurrence is instructive of the necessity of poetry because it is such a highly adaptive and yet simple form for conveying and debating our responses, whether emotional or physical, to anything. More generally, in language, verse remains unrivalled in its ability to economically voice such fundamentals as love, jealousy, disappointment or hope (think John Donne or Emily Dickinson); or sensuality (think Christina Rossetti); or our relationship with nature (think Walt Whitman and Robert Frost).
So why do we, unlike the Victorians who lived in a similar time, neglect poetry so much? Partly it is because it seems to contrast so distinctly against what we want and expect - simple, direct and easy; misperceptions accentuated by the idea that verse is vague, irrelevant and elitist. But that's only so if we compare with it the lowest common denominators, such as the language of reality shows and the expletives of "edgy" contemporary art, all of which still does have its place.
In fact, what could be more direct - and unsettling - as Owen and Sassoon respectively put it of "The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells" or "Sneak home and pray you'll never know, The hell where youth and laughter go".
And yet, at the other end, there is the levity and humour of Dickinson -"God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me" - or the inspiration of Frost - "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference".
Another problem with poetry is that it does not always resolve tensions and issues in a manner we customarily expect, that is, satisfactorily and instantly.
If anything, verse demonstrates that for some problems there are no immediate solutions, if any at all. It's not always a comforting lesson.
But how can we reconnect? It may sound obvious, but one step at a time. The advantage of poetry is that it's brief. So there is no harm in reading a few lines or a few verses at a time. Eliot's The Waste Land is seen as lengthy because it's 434 lines long. Poetry should not be read as a book, but as it is intended, in short, pithy spurts.
Barry Hing is a Sydney writer.
ONE of the many lessons of World War I, which began almost 100 years ago with an assassination in June 1914, is its striking affirmation of the importance and, particularly for now, of the necessity of poetry in daily life.
Indeed, this year's anniversary affords an opportunity to reconnect with the potential of verse, a robust linguistic response to the tedium - which so dominates our lives - of emails, SMS and chat forums as well as the "conversation" of seminars, focus groups and advertising.
Such an instruction from a century ago is far from peculiar, given the catastrophe of the Western Front, unlike the wars that preceded and followed it, created some of the most memorable, if not some of the most meaningful, poetry of the English-speaking world; namely from Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, and a host of others such as Robert Graves and Rupert Brooke, and for which The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, who did not fight in the war, represents something of a full stop with its lament for the West.
Any of us can write and rhyme, conjure up puns, metaphors and witticisms, as well as SMS and tweet, but the result is usually far from what would pass as poetic. What the Great War poets taught was the forcefulness and fullness of the written word, and its ability to respond to what matters, immediately and beyond - in their case, the pervasiveness of sorrow and death - in a lasting way.
More specifically, the elegance of World War I poetry, which is generally bereft of sentimentality and triteness, shows verse is always relevant and stays with us. Owen and Sassoon, for example, are still studied and quoted today, although admittedly often in a perfunctory and misconceived manner.
The significance of poetry to the generation of 1914-18 and its ability to articulate itself in verse, indeed, its preference for it as a form of expression over anything else, were natural and logical, given that they were - as the symbolic last Victorians - educated on a literary and philosophic diet of, among others, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Keats, Tennyson and Kipling and, of course, Homer and Virgil.
And just as relevant for us is the fact that this poetic surge, which took place from around the start of the 19th century to the early 20th, occurred against a backdrop, similar to ours, of the Industrial Revolution - or the Age of Progress - when industry, science and social rights made huge bounds, leading often to unsettling change. This coincidence of poetry and huge change was hardly accidental.
If anything, such a concurrence is instructive of the necessity of poetry because it is such a highly adaptive and yet simple form for conveying and debating our responses, whether emotional or physical, to anything. More generally, in language, verse remains unrivalled in its ability to economically voice such fundamentals as love, jealousy, disappointment or hope (think John Donne or Emily Dickinson); or sensuality (think Christina Rossetti); or our relationship with nature (think Walt Whitman and Robert Frost).
So why do we, unlike the Victorians who lived in a similar time, neglect poetry so much? Partly it is because it seems to contrast so distinctly against what we want and expect - simple, direct and easy; misperceptions accentuated by the idea that verse is vague, irrelevant and elitist. But that's only so if we compare with it the lowest common denominators, such as the language of reality shows and the expletives of "edgy" contemporary art, all of which still does have its place.
In fact, what could be more direct - and unsettling - as Owen and Sassoon respectively put it of "The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells" or "Sneak home and pray you'll never know, The hell where youth and laughter go".
And yet, at the other end, there is the levity and humour of Dickinson -"God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me" - or the inspiration of Frost - "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference".
Another problem with poetry is that it does not always resolve tensions and issues in a manner we customarily expect, that is, satisfactorily and instantly.
If anything, verse demonstrates that for some problems there are no immediate solutions, if any at all. It's not always a comforting lesson.
But how can we reconnect? It may sound obvious, but one step at a time. The advantage of poetry is that it's brief. So there is no harm in reading a few lines or a few verses at a time. Eliot's The Waste Land is seen as lengthy because it's 434 lines long. Poetry should not be read as a book, but as it is intended, in short, pithy spurts.
Barry Hing is a Sydney writer.