On the state of poetry and its contemporary form
The strange thing about poetry is that when we talk about it, our minds more often times than not venture into the territory of popular, well-renowned, dusted-up men like Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire or Shakespeare. Those figures are what our schools acquaint us with. In fact, the string of literary figures that we are obliged to learn about for our compulsory education ends just about XX century, giving us no opportunity to familiarize ourselves with more contemporary writers other than exploring the subject on our own. And don’t get me wrong, I find the old, classical poetry as enticing and fascinating as any other sane person. It is beautiful, grand and sublime for the most part, quizzical and light for the rest, and educating young minds on that matter is more than fine by me, essential even. It is extremely important to introduce young people to the common legacy and culture of the world, the beauty and intricacies of language. But with the way it is done in our schools comes an insufferable notion that poetry – true poetry! – may only come from those dried-up, long-dead men. A notion, which I consider to be borderline ludicrous. For me the candid charm of poetry lies in its constant fluidness, progression, as well as mercurial and an almost aching need of change. The fact that it lies in the nature in both, the poet and poetry, to invent new forms, to oppose the old ones, and to break the rules, or rather, bend them to one’s will. And for that I consider the contemporary poetry, as neglected and disregarded as it is, to be as crucial to our culture as the works of the old rhymesters. To be completely honest, I for one, find the unfamiliar, murky waters of the new, contemporary poetry far more alluring than the already ventured, known by heart lyrics of Romantics or Beat Generation. I don’t know why, but I must admit there is something far more relatable in the modern poetry, something that if only written and read properly can cut to the bone, infect one’s soul with the problems and desires that are much closer to them than let’s say the conquest of Granada or the complicated stories from Camelot. Of course, we could break our heads over the sorry excuse for writing that Lord Byron decided to curse us all with, but what for if we could just simply contemplate ourselves, our lives and our problems while supplemented by the subtle and moving works of Stephen Crane or Laura Gilpin, whose poems are by far more coherent and thought provoking than whatever Byron managed to ever produce, with the greatest strain and effort I imagine. To be honest, for that reason I find the constant neglect of contemporary poetry in our society quite unfair.
And so, considering all that, I admit to being the most eager enthusiast of contemporary poetry. My favourite poems are In the desert and Two-headed calf, both true, soul-gripping masterpieces. But one piece of art that has, and for ever will have my undisturbed sympathy, is an anonymously written poem by the name of Icarus. Like in the two aforementioned pieces, it is the subversion of expectations that grips my heart most in the poem. In Two-headed calf and In the desert, the surprise comes from the conclusion the authors plainly present us with – that the beauty and content may be found even in the darkest, most gruesome and grotesque scenarios. And while Icarus does quite the same thing, what surprises the readers most, what first comes into the view and leaves them in awe is the way the whole affair surrounding Icarus himself is presented. It is not a story that we’re used to, the cautionary tale of recklessness and arrogance, but rather an ode to the dreamers. Moreover, dreamers who fail in their endeavours. When Icarus falls, in the traditional telling he is punished for exactly that, for trying, for wishing and for dreaming. His death is gruesome, tragic, unnoticed. In Bruegel’s interpretation, no one is looking at our protagonist. The people in the foreground (and even in the background!) are going on about their day, their eyes digging deep into the soil before them, into the nets, the cows they must take care of to make ends meet. No one pays attention to the solemn, pale leg sticking miserably from the barely disturbed sea. And I suppose, if it wasn’t for the title of the painting – Landscape with the fall of Icarus – we, the viewers probably wouldn’t even know who the leg belongs to as well. In Bruegel’s piece, anonymity is the punishment for Icarus. In the original myth it is the death itself. But not in my poem. In Icarus, he laughs in his fall. He finds beauty in the tragic situation, delight in the burn of melted wax scorching his skin, strange allure in the light of sun. We know, as readers that he should be soaring, and yet he falls. Laughing all the way down. I don’t think that for this Icarus death is the punishment. I think it is the crescendo, a beautiful end to a dream he could never fulfil. It is unclear in this poem if our Icarus knew that he was destined to fail, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He tried, he made the effort and that is what truly counts. The result is just that, a result, and his failure is his own – an achievement in itself.
That kind of forking in the way of living, fulfilling one’s duties and the values one cherishes the most could be seen as far back as in the times of Homer, namely in his most known piece – The Iliad. In that absolute masterpiece, a blueprint of true fiction and chanson de geste if one would indulge, we can see the two brothers, Parys and Hector, facing the siege of their city. Hector, the prince, the older brother, thinks in the old, more acceptable, honourable way. He’s trying to convince his brother to duel for his honour and the fate of their town. Hector values thomos and wants for his brother to think in the same, valiant way. But Parys is not like that. He’s not a prince like his brother, he's not a warrior, but a recently recovered, royal son, a shepherd whose upbringing differs dramatically from the one of his brother’s, and so his way of thinking is different as well. Parys, the gentle, unprepared soul prefers the path of kholos – the contemplative wallowing. So, one might ask, at the end of the day, what is the correct way of thinking? The path of thomos or kholos? Well, I say it does not matter at all. Ultimately, both Parys and Hector die. But we all die, don’t we? One way or the other, our lives end and there is not second chance, no replay button. What matters is the fact that both princes had a certain view of the life, their own interpretation, and lived their lives accordingly. Just like in the case of Icarus, their decisions and actions were their own, as well as the results.
That is what one might conclude when thinking of the Icarus in the frame of old, Greek stories. But it is a modern poem, so I think I would not be too far off while saying that, yes there are some elements from antiquity that inspired the piece, but what I think truly inspires it to be what it ultimately is, would be the XX century absurdism, specially that of Camus.
Should I kill myself or drink a cup of coffee? Are the most famous words of Albert Camus. What they represent is the critical, almost nihilist way of thinking about life. If there is no origin of life, and what comes with it, no purpose to it, then what is there to our activities? If they are of no meaning, leave no trace in the grand scheme of things, then why do we do them at all? In that kind of world, having a cup of coffee, or killing oneself bare the same meaning, hold the same weight. You did something. That’s it. There is no cosmic consequence. While reading Icarus and having that thought in mind, all the thomos, kholos, punishment and unachieved endeavour, go out the window.Mayhaps, Icarus laughs not because he is content with what he did, maybe he does not see that beauty in the fall, but the pure absurd that is the fear that comes before it. Maybe he does not fear it and is able to admire the golden rays of sun, because whether he dies or not is of no consequence to him, because in life there is nothing truly of consequence. One might say that it is a very bleak and unpleasant way of looking at life. I, however, say that it is quite freeing. After all, if there are no repercussions, no hell, no final, divine punishment, then what is there to fear? Absolutely nothing. So, we might as well live our lives to their fullest, fall, if we must, face Achilles, drown. But laugh while doing this, because we know that at least we tried, and the failure or victory do not matter at all.
As I’ve said already, the contemporary poetry is, in my humble opinion, terribly neglected, and simultaneously, utterly brilliant. But it is not only for its fresh, new-wave style or contrarian nature. I think it is so brilliant precisely because it is so deeply rooted in the past all the while being close to us, and their authors have the opportunity, the resources to reference the old. Sometimes the poetry might subvert our expectations, surprise us. Other times it might solidify our perception of the world. Or in some cases, do the first, while presenting us with the second and vice versa. What I want to say, is that there is no correct way of interpretating poetry, like there is no correct way in choosing thomos and kholos, the old or the new one. But if we venture into the uncovered realm of contemporary poetry, we might gain a clearer insight into the past, as well the present. And that is precisely why I enjoy this poem, Icarus, so much. It is a contemporary, anonymous work, and so by its existence it rebels against the admiration for the old, all the while catering to in, in the themes it uses.
As I said before, the old poetry is grand, sublime, it is in one word, a classic, and that in itself makes it so valuable to our society. One thing about it is that, even though it is so important to us it does not do anything our modern poetry isn’t. That is why I think the contemporary poetry so important.
