Poetry and
Politics in American Society
It
is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die
miserably every day
for
lack
of what is found there.
--William
Carlos Williams
For over five years, these words
from William Carlos Williams have greeted me every time I hunger for a leftover
piece of pizza, every time I reach for ice cubes or grab for a cold bottle of
beer, every time I stand in front of the refrigerator for minutes on end (door
open, mind you) wondering what I can cobble together for dinner. You see, some five years ago or more, POETRY magazine sent a brochure urging me
to purchase a subscription, and these words on a simple teal background struck
my wife enough that she tore off the portion with Williams’ words and affixed
it to our freezer door. I’ve often
thought his words beautiful. I’ve often
wished that I had written such a sentiment in such a straightforward yet unsentimental
way. I’ve often wondered whether those
words were freestanding—a pithy response to an interview question, perhaps—or
from a poem where the whole was even greater than the sum of its parts. But there was always work to be done, there
was always a baseball game to watch, always dinner to make. And so, for over five years I have allowed
myself to be content with the knowledge that Williams’ words are beautiful.
Recently,
however, I read that Antioch University’s MFA writing program—one of the top
five low-residency programs according to Poets
and Writers and The Atlantic
magazines—distinguishes itself from other programs by incorporating their
socially conscious values as an integral part of the writers’ experience. Their
website states that “students learn the various roles of the writer in society,
discovering how to make a difference on the page, and in the diverse
communities where they work and live” (www.antiochla.edu). Certainly, authors with a penchant for
political or social satire are commonplace; however, stating that writers play
a particular role in society—that they have a responsibility both when writing
their written works and while communing in their communities—rang as
revolutionary. The more I turned the
idea over in my mind, the more I was reminded of former New York State
governor, Mario Cuomo’s declaration: “You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.”
Suddenly,
Williams’ words struck me as much more immediate, desperate, perhaps even
resigned. I paused to consider what he
meant when he wrote, “men die miserably every day/for lack/of what is found
there” (Williams 19). As I thought about his words in the context of social
obligation, political meditation, and a national dialogue, I began to think
they were overly saccharine and hyperbolic—but perhaps he is spot on. Most certainly Williams speaks in metaphors,
but what would it be like to live in a society where poetry is part of the
lingua franca? Where poets are relevant
outside of academia? Where there is an earnest belief that what is found in
poems will sustain us? While this litany
of “what if” questions may seem fanciful, ultimately they lead us to ask the
questions that really matter: How is poetry essential to political and social
discourse? What are the ramifications of Governor Cuomo’s linguistic bait and
switch? And, ultimately, with the gaze of history (hopefully) upon them, what
exactly is the poet’s role in American society?
It
is easy to say that creating an age of poetry begins with teaching young people
that poetry is valuable—that a consciousness change of this magnitude must
begin in our primary, middle, and high schools.
However, my contention is that poetry first needs to become a more obvious part of everyday social and
political discourse. It is only in this type
of environment that contemporary American poets can fulfill their obligation to
challenge individuals to become better citizens. The onus here lies with the politicians to
learn to govern in poetry and with the poets to learn to engage without.
For Lack of What
is Found There
In February of 1985, New York State Governor
Mario Cuomo gave a speech at Yale University urging his fellow Democrats to
keep moving forward despite the election results in which President Ronald
Reagan retained the presidency. A
powerful and persuasive orator with a strong grasp of literary tradition in his
own right, Governor Cuomo quoted Galileo and belittled the rise of caricatures
in politics. He decried the effect of
labeling politicians as party members and channeled Allen Ginsburg (not in
thought, certainly, but in form). So
when he declared, “We campaign in poetry.
But when we’re elected, we’re forced to govern in prose,” there is an
understanding that Mr. Cuomo was intentional with his words. His intentionality only serves to highlight
the irony that this quote—perhaps his most famous and most oft repeated—has
been perverted to fit into what Samuel Hazo might deem, “the language of
economy” (446).
Before delving into the differences
between Mr. Cuomo’s actual words and the version that has been attributed to
him, it is important to lay out what is understood. Most certainly governing requires different
skills than campaigning, but that does not in any way imply that the skill sets
are mutually exclusive. In fact, given
that a successful campaigner is faced with the demands of governing, it is
disturbing to think that the actions demand a completely different
vocabulary. (If that were the case, the political arena would
be overfilled with elected officials who only sit office for a single term.) While the argument most commonly is that the
language of campaigning is overwrought with lofty proclamations and gilded
language, the problem—and Governor Cuomo knows this too well—is that the
language of governance is limiting. As
Hazo states, “It [the language of statement] is not language at its
fullest. Once it has served its purpose,
it evaporates. Such language dominates
our public life” (443). The “language of
statement” or “economy” or “governance” is accepted because its face-value is
clearly denoted, but that does not get to the heart of the issue. The crux of the matter is this: the derisive
manner in which politicians and political pundits speak of “campaigning in
poetry” has led to a distrust of those skilled in rhetoric.
In order to understand the state of poetry
and political speech in America today, perhaps it is best to begin an
explication of Mr. Cuomo’s quote focusing on the efficient, economical way his
words were ultimately recorded in popular history. Most often, the statement is repeated as a
variation on his theme. For example, during
a debate with then Governor Barack Obama in 2008, Hillary Clinton responded to
a particular question with, “You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.” The implication being that Mr. Obama may be
cut out for campaigning—with his oratory prowess and intellectual bend—but it
is Ms. Clinton who is fit for the responsibility of governing, which requires a
much different—more staid—vernacular.
Or, in layman’s terms, it appeared as if Ms. Clinton was saying, “You
may be very good at speaking and persuading, Mr. Obama, but you have not yet proven
you can govern efficiently and effectively.”
Unfortunately, Ms. Clinton and
myriad others in politics disregard the power of the spoken word to galvanize
people. In his essay, “Poetry and Public
Speech,” Samuel Hazo writes that “memorable words have an undying legacy, and
they survive the times and places of their origin without difficulty”
(442). Clearly, this is a truism with
myriad examples—and, while many of those words may be attributed to poets (think,
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” from Shakespeare’s Henry V or, “But I have promises to
keep/And miles to go before I sleep,” from Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a
Snowy Evening”)—a significant number were spoken by those in public service. Who can forget Martin Luther King, Jr.’s
rousing, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
or John F. Kennedy’s, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you
can do for your country.”? The truth is
that these words retain their life particularly because of the emotions they
stir, and that is the power of poetic language.
The language of politics—especially
in the last twenty-five years as Governor Cuomo’s words have reverberated and
resurfaced, and, not to any small extent, reshaped the concept of campaigning—however,
is not given to poetic dalliance.
Unfortunately, it is quite the opposite; political opportunists have long
since cautioned the public to be wary of their golden-tongued
counterparts. What is left are
politicians who revel in their ability to “talk straight” to “the common folk”
while eschewing poetic metaphors or historical, religious, or literary
allusions for fear of alienating their audience. Or perhaps the political and social landscape
of America is even bleaker—perhaps there is no discussion of poetry or use of
poetic devices present in the public speech of today because it is deemed
unnecessary. As Hazo writes, “So long as
people are perceived in economic terms alone, poetry (and all the other arts,
for that matter) will be regarded as ornamental, irrelevant, or simply
dispensable” (447).
In my opinion, however, what is most
interesting about Mr. Cuomo’s quote is what James Joyce would refer to as the
gnomon, or the part which is removed or missing. In Euclidean geometry, the gnomon is the
figure formed by removing a similar parallelogram from the corner of a larger
parallelogram; it is necessary to know the dimensions of the excised
parallelogram in order to know the larger, similar parallelogram (Euclid
371). Joyce was obsessed with Euclid’s
gnomon, with the idea that it was necessary to understand the absent part—or what was left unsaid—in order to fully grasp the
motives of a character and the meaning of a story. In this case, it is the words that have been
dropped from Mr. Cuomo’s quote that shed the most light on the problems poetry
and politics face in their desire to become bedfellows.
When the Governor gave his speech,
he told the audience at Yale, “We campaign in poetry, but when we’re elected,
we’re forced to govern in prose,” yet, when the words are spoken in popular
refrains and collective memory, they ring more as, “You campaign in poetry. You
govern in prose.” Gone entirely is the
shift from the active voice of “campaign” to the passive voice of “are
elected,” and, particularly, “are forced.”
And this makes good sense for those who choose to bastardize Mr. Cuomo’s
quote; the passive voice does not work in governance. Passivity is either weakness or indecision,
and there is an implicit understanding that those in politics and public life
do not hesitate, they do not flinch. However,
this new presentation obfuscates the Governor’s (or, as Hazo would argue, the
human beings’) inclination towards poetry.
Stating that politicians “are
forced to govern in prose” implies that these politicians, if allowed their
freedom, would choose another way to govern.
Specifically, given the first clause, it implies that if presented the
opportunity, politicians would govern in poetry.
Without question, many of them
would; however, Mr. Cuomo continues by inquiring whether there is any way “to
bridge the yawning credibility gap between what we promise [poetry] and how we
perform [governance]?” He ultimately
concludes that yes, it is possible to bridge this gap, but only by “stating as
directly and concisely—over and over again—the principles that shape your
politics, that are its soul” (Cuomo). At
first it is hard to believe that this conclusion is proffered by a man who
alliterates “Progressive Pragmatism” and employs metaphors such as “the
Procrustean bed of reality”—not to mention one who titles his speech after
Galileo’s words (“E pur si muove”)
before the Inquisition (Cuomo). The Governor’s
presentation is ensconced in poetry—or at least poetic language and poetic
devices—even as he reluctantly determines that economy is the language of solid
governance. And—much like Galileo forced
to deny that the earth revolves around the sun—Mr. Cuomo seems to offer up his
own “But still it moves,” when he speaks to the “soul” of one’s political
beliefs.
As Hazo maintains, “If the language
of economy becomes the working vocabulary of our lives, it can leave out many
of those elements that sustain us as human beings” (446). While Hazo is
specifically talking about the culture of consumerism and finance, there is
certainly an implied double entendre when he uses the phrase, “language of
economy.” The language of business and
politics is a language of punctiliousness.
In other words, the language of economy and governance is economical. The question then is—as William Carlos
Williams, Samuel Hazo, and Mario Cuomo might ask—what is the cost of living in
a social and political environment where economy is the working language? What effect does this mindset have on the
generations of citizens raised in today’s American society?
There are certainly advantages to Mr.
Cuomo’s altered quote—even from a linguistic point of view. It has a sense of parallelism that his
original statement lacks. It has rhythm
and is well-balanced. It is sound-bite
ready, connecting two pithy declarative clauses. However, I would argue that the reshaped
quote—more specifically the mentality behind it—has had a degenerative effect
on the acceptability of poetic rhetoric in public speech. The restyled quote offered as Mr. Cuomo’s belittles
poetry; it presents it as the patter of charlatans. Though the Governor certainly understood the
difference between “political theater” and the “drab, harsh, even draconian”
language of statutes, it most certainly was not his intent to paint poetry in
such a poor light (Cuomo). Nevertheless,
for the past twenty-five years as “his” quote has surfaced time and again, the
implication is that those who are gifted orators are performing a philological
sleight of hand. Perhaps this is why the
American public largely keeps poetry at arm’s length and can be keenly
suspicious of academia. It may well also
be why, as David Biespiel surmises, “American poetry and America’s poets remain
amazingly inconsequential to the rest of the nation’s civic, democratic,
political, and public life” (151). Once
again we are left to look to the gnomon—in this case poetry and the American
poet—in order to understand the Euclidean parallelogram that is American politics,
governance, and society.
But Still it Moves
Conveniently, we find ourselves back
at the beginning again, where William Carlos Williams’ words are read with a
whole new urgency when viewed through the lens of Joyce’s concept of the
gnomon. Now, it is impossible to read
the lines, “yet men die every day/for lack/of what is found there,” without
thinking about what it is precisely that
is present inside poetry which men die for lack thereof (19). At the same time, however, it does not
require an overwhelming intellect to determine what Williams’ claims men
lack. It is an embracing of things which
are beautiful, an appreciation of ornament.
It is an understanding that dramatic photographs, tender melodies, and
well-crafted words enhance lives that we live in ways that economic theories
and zoning laws cannot. Truly, however,
it runs deeper than that. Increasingly
there is a tacit acceptance that poetry—in all its forms and with the
understanding that poetry itself is employed as a metaphor—is superfluous or,
in the case of the altered Cuomo quote, an impediment to a successful
existence. Williams’ tercet highlights
the same argument proffered by Samuel Hazo, and it is—at least subconsciously,
I would argue—what impels the Governor to whisper his own, “But still it
moves.”
Poetry and politicians have a
tenuous relationship at best in today’s public arena, and while it is easy to
rest blame on the shoulders of the politicians who shun the arts and converse
in exactitudes, poets are just as guilty for the near-complete absence of
poetry in our public speech. There have
been programs such as the now-defunct Poetry in Motion, which postered New York
City subway cars with snippets of poems interspersed alongside advertisements
for multi-lingual lawyers and night courses at City College, and Dave Eggers’
826 National program, which is devoted to inspiring teenagers and younger
children to delve into the world of writing. President Barack Obama—a politician of the
highest visibility—reintroduced the concept of an inauguration poem (the first since
Bill Clinton took office, incidentally) when he invited Elizabeth Alexander to
read her poem, “Praise Song for the Day.”
However, the landscape of American civic discourse is decidedly bereft
of poetry in large part due to what poet David Biespiel describes in his essay,
“This Land is Our Land,” as the “American poets’ intractable and often
disdainful disinterest in participating in the public political arena outside
the realm of poetry” (152).
The problem, it
appears, is that American poets have reveled in the notion of being
marginalized so much that they have completed what amounts to a self-fulfilling
prophecy where poetry has become “simply another industry of hermetic
self-specialization” (Biespiel 152). As
they sit alone in their rooms writing sestinas and perfecting enjambment, they
have lost sight of their role in the world around them—they have lost sight of
their tradition as part of a world-wide collective of poets throughout the
centuries who act as the barometer of social and political events. Instead, they “favor a definition of
themselves in the cultural firmament as outsiders, lone wolves, individualists,
and displaced persons” (Biespiel 153).
Their poetry has increasingly focused inward to the personal human
experience as it relates to the experience of others, and that, in and of
itself, is no trivial task. To be sure,
it is not so much that a particular poet might favor writing that is devoid of
political insinuation or carefully weighed observations of the social climate
at home and abroad. The concern is that
these same poets—whose voice carries a certain authority simply from having the
epithetical “poet” attached to their name—do not take the opportunity to
address the inequities they see or work to engage the younger generations in a
dialogue about the importance of poetry in their lives if the latter wishes to
“die at peace in [their] bed” (Williams 19).
This is the
gnomon to the political parallelogram: it is the poets, and, more specifically,
the poetry that has been removed from our civic life. It is also the piece that needs to be
understood and embraced in order for the lives of the American citizenry to
show any discernible intellectual and emotional improvement. The absence of a poetic voice in American
public discourse creates a hole that is not easily filled; however, with simply
a cursory glance at the current state of poetry in society, “you quickly
conclude that the capacity for poets to connect to audiences from more than
some micro-segment of American life is fatally imperiled” (Biespiel 154). The very fact that Biespiel describes poetry
as affecting a “micro-segment of American life” indicates a fall from grace
that poets of bygone eras might not have foreseen. Poets (and other artists) are responsible
for adding color to the black and white; it is their job to help the public
aspire for something more inspirational, more meaningful, more ethereal. Without their active presence in the
continuing social and political dialogue, the language of economy—and with it
the burgeoning idea that poetry (and any other art form) is unessential—will
dominate.
For that reason it is essential for
America’s poets to come out of their writing dens and attempt to occupy the
citizenry with poetry, or, at the very least, an understanding of the value of poetic
language in public discourse. They need
to make a conscious effort to make themselves—if not always their work—more
accessible to the layman. Perhaps some
would argue that this approach is akin to “selling out,” but the state of
poetry in the United States is in dire straits; it is an art form on the brink
of death. In a poetic environment such
as this, with poets not even willing to sit as close as the sidelines to weigh
in on social and political matters, “for an American poet to be something like
a subversive today would mean not pushing further inward into the huddles of
poetry, but the opposite. The poet who
engages democratic dialogue and political life is the renegade” (Biespiel 155). America was built on the backs of renegades
and outlaws, and, to this day, those who buck trends garner the most attention
and acknowledgement in our society.
While this approach to engagement may be viewed as affected shtick or
contrived artifice, this should not, and, most likely would not, diminish the
impact a poet’s missives might have.
The fact is that
“Poets are actually uniquely suited and retain a special cultural gravitas to
speak publicly and morally about human aspirations” (Biespiel 157). They have been granted this stature since the
days of Homer, and nothing that has happened throughout the course of history
has diminished the perception of poets as individuals gifted with an ability
for clear thinking and lofty idealism.
Nothing that is until the bastardized words of former-Governor Cuomo
circulated through the arena of American political discourse. Every time a politician derides poetry by
implying it is the language of shysters and instead espouses the commonplace
language of statutory prose, poets are forced to work that much harder to gain
acceptance and recognition in our society.
When Ms. Clinton—and numerous other politicians—intimates that her
political opponent’s gifted speech is all that he has going for him, she is not
solely questioning his inability to govern.
Anyone who is listening recognizes the derisive way the idea of
“campaigning in poetry” is presented—not to mention that in this circumstance
poetry is the language of “the other,” the opponent, the one who needs to be
defeated. Poetry is the language of
creativity and imagination; economy is the language of the tried and true. It is easy to see why the language of economy
might win out.
The irony here is that “American
civic life needs an honest broker, one who possesses the poet’s core values of
illumination, imagination, reflection, and sincerity” (Biespiel 157). And, while certainly there are politicians
out there who can play the role of “honest broker,” the political system may be
too fractured and bi-partisan for and elected official to play this crucial
role. In that case, Biespiel’s argument becomes
even sounder, and it becomes more vital for poets and other artists to engage
in this national dialogue. However, the
“special cultural gravitas” granted poets is predicated upon the fact that
people think you have to be uniquely intelligent to understand poetry (therefore
you need to be even more intelligent to write it), and poets cannot hope to be
heard if they do not step outside their “industry of hermetic self-speculation”
(Biespiel 157, 152).
The situation may be dire—at least
for the future of poets (and the “life” that exists in poems)—but it is not
unfixable. Hip-hop artists have opened a
dialogue on race and class issues in America (e.g., Kanye West proclaiming
George Bush doesn’t care about black people and Jay-Z supporting the Occupy
Wall Street protestors), and they, as practitioners of a “fringe art,” do not
have nearly the prestige of traditional poets.
While their arguments may at times be specious and ill-conceived, they
are willing to stand up and engage in the conversation and challenge the
dominant ideas. That, in turn, has brought
them attention and name recognition, and with that comes an increased
investigation into their art. Poets can
learn a lot from their hip-hop counterparts simply by following this model. They already have the benefit of legitimacy not
typically afforded those in the hip-hop community. Now it is time for them to “speak outside of
the chiseled monuments of poems and distinct aesthetic debates directly to
matters beyond memory, private reclamation, and linguistic chop-chop” (Biespiel
157). If this happens, if poet’s adjust
their scope “beyond the essential concern for writing poems…[to] include public
participation in the life of the Republic,” America’s citizenry will stand up, take
notice, and—most importantly—pick up a book of their poetry (Biespiel 158).
With the Eyes of
Angels
In his introduction to Allen
Ginsburg’s book of poetry, Howl and Other
Poems, William Carlos Williams writes, “We are blind and live our blind
lives out in blindness. Poets are damned
but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels” (7). David Biespiel echoes this sentiment when he
writes, “The function of the poet may be to mythologize experience, but another
function is to bring a capacity for insight—including spiritual insight—into
contact with the political conditions of existence” (158). Indeed, Samuel Hazo supports this same
argument when he writes that “poets can make us aware—feelingly—of what matters
and what does not; and in their ‘craft or art’ they will confirm that truth
will always outlive lies in the same way that love will always outlive death”
(451). All three men recognize the
important role that poet’s should play in society, and all three agree that
fulfillment of this role is exactly what is missing in American civic
discourse.
Without poets, poetry, and poetic
language, any attempt to revisit William Carlos Williams’ poem, “Asphodel, that
Greeny Flower,” and not determine happiness to be a desperate venture is
fruitless. Here are the last six tercets
of the first section of Williams’ poem, sandwiched in the middle are the words
that have spent the last five years hanging heedless on my refrigerator door:
My
heart rouses
thinking
to bring you news
of
something
that
concerns you
and
concerns many men. Look at
what
passes for the new.
You
will not find it there but in
despised
poems.
It
is difficult
to
get the news from poems
yet
men die miserably every day
for
lack
of
what is found there.
Hear
me out
for
I too am concerned
and
every man
who
wants to die at peace in his bed
besides.
Without an acceptance of poetry and poetic inclination in the
civic engagement of American citizens, Williams’ last sentence means nothing—it
refers to no one. The speaker’s concern is
a society and a culture, not to mention a news source, where what is found in
poetry (e.g., beauty, love, challenge, honest dialogue) is missing. That is the gnomon: the absence of poetry
creates for the speaker (and Hazo, and Biespiel, and Cuomo) a void that needs
to be understood—indeed, needs to be filled—in order for life to be worth
living.
Works Cited
Biespiel, David. "This
Land is Our Land." Poetry 196.2 (2010): 151. Web.
Cuomo, Mario. “E pur si
muove.” Chubb Fellowship lecture. Yale University, New Haven. 15 Feb. 1985.
Euclid.
The Thirteen Books of Euclid’s Elements,
Vol. 1. Trans. Sir Thomas Little Heath
and Johan
Ludvig Heiberg. Cambridge: University Press, 1908.
Ginsburg, Allen. Howl and Other Poems. San Francisco:
City Lights Publishers, 2001.
Hazo, Samuel. "Poetry
and Public Speech." The Sewanee Review 116.3 (2008): 442. Web.
Williams, William Carlos. Asphodel, That Greeny Flower and Other Love
Poems. New York: New Direction Books, 1994.
