Poetry
should be heard rather than seen:
Poetry
lost its innocence when the source of making and receiving was no longer
hearing and hearsay. The need to write it down brought the eye into it,
Too
far for the last century. Mainstream poetry was drawn away from romancing the
moon to trying to understand it. Astronomy rather than astrology. The quest for
the fact that would explain everything. The slipstream of modernism still found
its trickle of interest. But it was an art not at ease with itself, breaking
with tradition in order to remake on paper. In other words, the poets wanted their work seen
before being heard. Sensible enough in an age where literacy is the norm. The layout on the page was the key to Mallarme,
the most daring of modernists, in his later poems such as ‘Un Coup de Dès’.
The
young James Joyce, aggrieved by the Abbey Theatre’s disinterest
in his submissions,
knocked at WB Yeats’s door. When the poet appeared, Joyce
announced, ‘Old man, I cannot do anything for you. There is no
chaos in your soul’.’ Yeats’s response to
Joyce’s youthful insouciance came
when in later years when he felt words were not obeying his call and
rather
than throwing poor words away, he wrote the ‘Crazy Jane’
poems (1930). They
read out loud so well that the written forgotten and the oral
tradition
reigns.
Poets,
cut adrift from being chroniclers, sages, maudits, unacknowledged legislators
and so on, wandered amongst the visual arts where first impressions still
prevailed over second-guessing. Many found their bearings in painting (Paul
Valery), printmaking (Brian Coffey) and Ezra Pound made tables. Borges, blind
as Homer, saw libraries as mooring ports for poets to log their voyages. He
dictated his entries to the young people who read to him. As Osip Mandelshtam
committed his to his wife’s memory, and not paper. The Gulag swallowed him.
Nadia passed them on. Oral poetry does not die.
Words
cut in stone or on printing blocks weather away. The spoken word is essential to poetry’s
survival. The poem, in common with musical composition, is heard in the head
before being written down. Though Mozart and Mallarme are said to have
committed their notation and word scatters to paper before apparently hearing
them having synchronous sight/ sound coordination.
The expansion
of international trade built its own Tower of Babel after the Industrial
Revolution. Vernacular dialects became less isolated and merged into the main
colonial languages. The Tower’s foundations were reinforced by Capitalism. But
the edifice swayed in the wind and toppled down into audio-visual advertising.
The visual jingle continues in cyberspace.
Unheard
words have variable meanings. Scholars, and interpreters of text messages, don’t
have to be told that. Without the nuance of inflection, they lose their unique character.
The task of the poet is to restore it. Rap and its de capo is a start returning poetry to pure orality.
As book reading is gradually being replaced by
plastic appliances that deliver screen prints with a voice-over, perhaps
it is the beginning of a return to the oral tradition, the ear overcoming the
indirectness of the eye. I was Basil Buntings minder for a reading of Yeats for
the Open University. The page
disappeared with his rendition of the ‘Crazy Jane’ poems. I was carried away by
a voice from the past echoing into the present and speaking to what happens
next. My friend, Brian Coffey, sent his life as a poet trying to rise above his
native influences like several of his more European-inclined writers like Thomas
McGreevy, Denis Devlin and Beckett. However, on one memorable occasion we
discussed poems we knew by heart, and Yeats was the top of the list. Pound
referred to W.B’s ‘auricular assurance’ which came from composing his poems walking
up and down his room sounding the words against the walls until they rang true
and flew out the skylight.
Age has not been so kind to me. In my youth my poems
sang, partly because writing them down challenged by dyslexia. When publishing
them friends and editors got around the malaprops. And I began to find ways to discipline
my spelling and grammar, and I ended up writing prose. I still write verse as
an economic way of putting words together. And just occasionally a youthful
memory takes over and I can be heard rather than seen.
The oral tradition saves paper and no doubt that is good
for the environment.