Archive for the ‘poetry criticism’ Tag

“The poetry wars never ended.”

DftPWChicago Review has just posted a lively, provocative conversation with Kent Johnson and Michael Boughn about the motivations driving that equally lively web-journal Dispatches from the Poetry Wars.

At a time when Instapoets are lionized as The Big New Thing (because of their sales numbers) and the art is otherwise domesticated (in the MFA program and English class), I know of few more vital, critical, and necessary sites of resistance than Dispatches.

What’s on my desk / what I’m working on

In a conversation I was lucky enough to have had this week with a long-standing, younger poet-friend, I was asked, half out of curiosity and half in challenge, just what contemporary poets I’m reading these days.

In answer, I append the bibliography below, which lists all the books on my desk that I’mIMG_2890 presently reading, either as part of larger projects (a talk on Peter Dale Scott and the post-secular I’m giving at the end of the month, or research into modes of poetic political engagement, or the ways poetry brings itself into relation with philosophy), or toward writing notices and reviews, or just for the sake of maintaining some small idea of what’s going on in contemporary world poetry.

Of course, which writers might be said to alive is more a matter of their art than their pulse.

 

What I’m reading

Angles, Jeffrey, trans. Poems of Hiromi Itō, Toshiko Hirata, & Takako Arai. Newtown:  Vagabond Press, 2016.

Armantrout, Rae. Versed. Middletown:  Weseleyan University Press. 2009.

Arsenev, Pavel. Spasm of Accommodation. Oakland:  Commune Editions, 2017.

Badiou, Alain. Being and Event, trans. Feltham, Oliver. London:  Continuum, 2007.

Philosophy for Militants, trans. Bosteels, Bruno. London:  Verso, 2015.

The Age of the Poets And Other Writings on Twentieth-Century Poetry and Prose, ed. and trans. Bosteels, Bruno. London:  Verso, 2014.

The Communist Hypothesis, trans. Macey and Corcoran. Bosteels, Bruno. London:  Verso, 2015.

Balestrini, Nanni. Blackout, trans. Valente, Peter. Oakland:  Commune Editions, 2017.

Berg, Aase. With Deer, trans. Johannes Göransson. Boston:  Black Ocean, 2008.

Blandiana, Ana. My Native Land A4, trans. Derrick and Patea. Hexham:  Bloodaxe Books, 2014.

Bohinc, Katy. Dear Alain. New York:  Tender Buttons Press, 2014.

Borzutsky, Daniel. The Book of Interfering Bodies. Callicoon:  Nightboat Books, 2011.

Bradford, David. A Star is Boring. Montreal:  Self-published, 2016.

Call Out. Toronto:  Knife Fork Books, 2017.

Clover, Joshua. Red Epic.  Oakland:  Commune Editions, 2015.

Collis, Stephen. Once in Blockadia. Vancouver:  Talonbooks, 2016.

Copi, Irving M. Symbolic Logic, Fifth ed. New York:  Macmillan, 1979.

Derrida, Jacques and Vattimo, Gianni, eds. Religion. Standford:  Standford University Press, 1998.

Dick, Mina Pam. Delinquent. New York:  Futurepoems Books, 2009.

Eckerlin, Jesse. Thrush. Windsor:  Biblioasis, 2016.

We Are Not The Bereaved. Victoria:  Frog Hollow Press, 2012.

Gewanter, David.  The Sleep of Reason. Chicago:  University Press of Chicago, 2003.

Gilbert, Sandra M. Kissing the Bread:  New and Selected Poems 1969-1999. New York:  Norton, 2000.

Gleize, Jean-Marie. Tarnac, A Preparatory Act, trans. Clover, et al. Chicago:  Kenning Editions, 2014.

Golynko, Dmitry. As It Turned Out, ed. Ostashevsky, Eugene, trans. Ostashevsky, et al. New York:  Ugly Duckling Presse, 2008.

Goyette, Sue ed. The Griffin Poetry Prize Anthology 2017. Toronto:  House of Anansi Press, 2017.

Graham, Jorie. Fast. New York:  Harper Collins, 2017.

Habermas, Jürgen. Between Naturalism and Religion, trans. Ciaran Cronin. Cambridge:  Polity, 2008.

Postmetaphysical Thinking:  Philosophical Essays, trans. William Mark Hohengarten. Cambridge:  MIT, 1992.

Postmetaphysical Thinking II:  Essays and Replies, trans. Ciaran Cronin. Cambridge:  Polity, 2017.

—Religion and Rationality:  Essays on Reason, God, and Modernity, ed. Eduardo Mandieta. Cambridge:  MIT, 2002.

The Future of Human Nature. Cambridge:  Polity, 2003.

—et al. The Awareness of What is Missing. Cambridge:  Polity, 2010.

Hall, Phil. The Small Nouns Crying Faith. Toronto:  BookThug, 2013.

Hartnett, Stephen John. Incarceration Nation:  Investigative Prison Poems of Hope and Terror. Walnut Creek:  Altamira, 2003.

Hecht, Jamey. Limousine Midnight Blue. Los Angeles:  Red Hen Press, 2009.

Heighton, Steven. The Walking Comes Late. Toronto:  House of Anansi, 2016.

Heller, Michael. Dianoia. New York:  Nightboat Books, 2016.

Itō, Hiromi. Killing Kanoko:  Selected Poems of Hiromi Itō, trans. Angles, Jeffrey. Notre Dame:  Action Books, 2009.

Wild Grass on the Riverbank, trans. Angles, Jeffrey. Notre Dame:  Action Books, 2014.

Jäderlund, Ann. Which had once been a meadow, trans. Johannes Göransson. New York:  Black Square Press, 2017.

Johnson, Ronald. Ark. Chicago:  Flood Editions, 2013.

Jönson, Johan. Collobert Orbital, trans, Göransson, Johannes. Displaced Press, 2009.

Lachman, Gary. Lost Knowledge of the Imagination. Edinburgh:  Floris Books, 2017.

Lau, David. Still Dirty:  Poems 2009-15. Oakland:  Commune Editions, 2016.

Mackey, Nathaniel. School of Udhra. San Francisco:  City Lights Books, 1993.

McKinnon, Barry. I Wanted to Say Something. Red Deer:  Red Deer College Press, 1990.

Medvedev, Kirill. It’s No Good, trans. Gessen et al. New York:  n + 1 and Ugly Duckling Presse, 2012.

Mendieta and Vanantwerfepen, eds. The Power of Religion in the Public Sphere. New York:  Columbia University Press, 2011.

Mancini, Donato. SAME DIFF. Vancouver:  Talonbooks, 2017.

Moure, Erin. O Cadoiro. Toronto:  House of Anansi Press, 2007.

Neveau, Chantal. A Spectactular Influence, trans. Nathanaël. Toronto:  BookThug, 2015.

Parra, Nicanor. Antipoems:  How to look better & feel great, trans. Werner, Liz. New York:  New Directions Press, 2004.

Ed. Ray, David. From the Hungarian Revolution. Ithaca:  Cornell UP, 1966.

Rilke, Rainer Maria.  The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, ed. & trans. Mitchell, Stephen. New York:  Vintage, 1984.

Eds. Rothenberg and Bloomberg-Rissman. Barbaric Vast & Wild:  A Gathering of Outside and Subterranean Poetry from Origins to the Present. Boston:  Black Widow Press, 2015.

Sartre, Jean Paul. What is Literature? Trans. Frechtman, Bernard. New York:  Routledge, 2001.

Scott, Peter Dale. Coming to Jakarta. Toronto:  M&S, 1988.

Coming to Jakarta. New York, New Directions Press, 1988.

Listening to the Candle. Toronto:  M&S, 1992.

Listening to the Candle. New York, New Directions Press, 1992.

Minding the Darkness. New York, New Directions Press, 2000.

Mosaic Orpheus. Montreal:  McGill-Queen’s UP, 2009.

Silliman, Ron. Revelator. Toronto:  BookThug, 2013.

The Alphabet. Tuscaloosa:  U of Alabama Press, 2008.

Smith, Dale. Sons. Toronto:  Knife Fork Books, 2017.

Sommer, Richard. Cancer Songs. Winnipeg:  Signature Editions, 2011.

Tremblay, Bill. Magician’s Hat:  Poems on the Life and Work of David Alfonso Siqueiros. Spokane:  Lynx House Press, 2013.

Vogelweide, Walther von. Gedichte, ed. Wapnewski, Peter. Frankfurt:  Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2006.

Walsøe-Engel, Ingrid. German Poetry From The Beginnings to 1750. New York:  Continuum, 1992.

Wilderson III, Frank B. Sideways Between Stories. Oakland:  Commune Editions, 2016.

Williamson, Alan. Res Publica.  University Press of Chicago, 1998.

Xiaoyu, Qin. Iron Moon:  An Anthology of Chinese Migrant Worker Poetry, trans. Goodman, Eleanor. Buffalo:  White Pine Press, 2016.

Yépez, Heriberto. Transnational Battle Field. Oakland:  Commune Editions, 2017.

 

 

“Ahi, quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura…”: a note on the postmodern Dante

Any visitor curious enough to view the reading that launched March End Prill might have selva oscurabeen in equal parts mystified and amused by my describing Cervantes and Homer as “avant garde, reflexive, or postmodern”. If so, then they’d be equally quizzical  of my describing Dante as postmodern.

I’ve made it a ritual to read through Dante’s Commedia every Easter Week “in real time”, The Inferno Good Friday and Holy Saturday, The Purgatorio Easter Sunday through to Wednesday, and The Paradiso as I will, as, having left the earth, terrestrial time no longer applies to the Pilgrim Dante or, in this case, his reader.

One of the things that makes Dante’s epic a classic is that even returning to it annually in this way, even the most familiar passages give up hitherto unnoticed features and meanings. Such was my experience this year, rereading the opening lines of The Inferno:

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura
esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte
che nel pensier rinova la paura!
Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte;
ma per trattar del ben ch’i’ vi trovai,
dirò de l’altre cose ch’i’ v’ho scorte.

Midway in the journey of our life
I came to myself in a dark wood,
for the straight way was lost.
Ah, how hard it is to tell
the nature of that wood, savage, dense and harsh —
the very thought of it renews my fear!
It is so bitter death is hardly more so.
But to set forth the good I found
I will recount the other things I saw.

A simpler, more literal rendering of line four would be “Ah, how to say what was is a hard thing…”.

Arguably the most immediate way to take this line is that the Pilgrim-Poet Dante, recounting his experience relives the fear he felt lost in that wild wood (delightfully, in the Italian, esta selva selvaggia), which causes a moment of reflection wherein he (reflexively) writes, not about the wood or his fear, but about his writing about the wood and his fear. That is, “it is difficult to write about so fearful an experience, because writing about it requires I in a way relive that fear”.

But, of course, the persona of the Pilgrim is a mask worn by the poet Dante. Considered from this angle, the poet is writing about writing his poem. This admission of the challenge of the epic task the poet has set for himself and the demands that this project place upon the poet’s talent is a pattern that recurs throughout the Commedia, most immediately and movingly in the next canto, where the Pilgrim questions his worthiness to follow Virgil through Hell and Purgatory and receives so tremendously a moving, eloquent pep talk in reply that, in all sincerity, it never fails to move me to tears. However much such an admission of humility is a rhetorical ornament common in Latin literature, it is no less moving, such is Dante’s genius. It is as if, then, the poet were admitting, “Ah, how hard it is to write this epic poem in this noble style I invented just for this purpose.”

The rich complexity of this line, however, is hardly exhausted in this near cliché example of the “postmodern” text’s referring to itself in however a sly, metapoetic manner. A quick glance back at the English translation of this line and its tercet reveals a curious pattern:  as the tercet progresses the translation becomes more literal. The Italian grammar of the line is, or so I have it on relatively good authority, somewhat counter intuitive to an English speaker, for ‘qual‘ that I translate as ‘what’ is a word that can function as either a relative pronoun or an interrogative, closer to English ‘which’. Moreover, the line conjugates the copula in both the past and present tenses:  “era è“, “was is”. Why various English versions of the line depart from the Italian as the syntactic demands of the remainder of the tercet demand is understandable. But it strikes me, perhaps only because of my depending on English translations and a casual commentary on the Italian grammar, that the line, describing difficulty, is, itself, linguistically difficult, a stylistic device that recurs in The Inferno. Here, then, the artistic awareness of the poet extends into the very syntax of his language.

Nevertheless, there is no small irony in the progression of the tercet. On the one hand, the Pilgrim-Poet admits to the emotional and poetic difficulty of presenting what he wants to present, but that “hard thing” (cosa dura) is, in a sense, dispensed rather too easily with three conjoined adjectives selvaggia e aspra e forte, savage and dense and harsh, followed by the simple, frank admission that remembering it renews his fear. For something so dura, hard, it is performed with a strikingly easy fluency. On the other hand, though, it could be that the remainder of the canto that deals with the Pilgrim’s encounter with its famous three beasts, the Leopard, Lion, and Wolf, and his being forced by them into darkness and despair is just that “hard thing” whose memory so frightens him (and fear is an important theme in these two cantos and throughout the Inferno), or it might be the Pilgrim-Poet rushes over that memory to pass through it and leave it behind to get to that more heartening good his being lost and finding his way through Hell and Purgatory to Paradise provides.

That Dante’s poem should display such deft and complex linguistic self-consciousness, a metapoetic dimension literary scholars have pegged as characteristic of postmodern literature, really shouldn’t be a surprise, for the work of literature that is at the same time about itself and literature was first theorized and intentionally explored over two centuries ago by the German Early Romantics, die Frühromantiker, in their journal The Athenaeum (1798-1800) and in their criticism, letters, poems and novels. Indeed, the three characteristically “modern” writers for the Jena romantics were Goethe, Shakespeare, and Dante.

“…where lives the virtue of poetry…”

Yesterday, Canada’s Chris Banks baldly posed the question to his Facebook friends “What is authentic poetry?”. I (mis)remembered, after my own initial contributions to winding or snarling the ensuing thread, I had written a poem that addressed at least “the virtue of all authentic thinking” (and I’m hardly the first to imagine or suggest that poetry can be a kind of thinking). I post that poem, below.

It was written at the same time as the poem that opens Ladonian Magnitudes, “topos tropos typos’ (a confession”, itself composed before even my first trade edition, Grand Gnostic Central. It’s title is a quotation from Charles Olson. Whether it is possessed of any qualities that might be construed as “authentic” I leave to the judgement of the reader. For my part, I cite again, as I did first in yesterday’s thread, Novalis, from his Fragments and Studies 1799-1800, #671:  Schwer schon ist zu entscheiden, doch einzig mögliche Entscheidung, ob etwas Poesie sei oder nicht”:  It’s already difficult to decide, but it’s the only decision possible, whether something is poetry or not.

 

“Unreal, that is, to the real itself”

 

where lives the virtue of poetry

and all thinking free

of the tyranny of the real

 

in perceiving the real

flow, elementally

fluid, hence watery

 

form forms

breath

seen in Winter

 

as slippery

hard and cold

as ice to the head

cracked

 

as the sea, unfathomable

God as Melville says

pondering

from the masthead

 

a shriek above

the water

 

a shriek

above the water

 

the same

News that stays news: On the Verbal Art of the Plain-spoken Poem

IMG_2521Recently, I’ve found myself caught up in a couple of on-line discussions where the topic turned to the reception of the “accessible” poem, one whose language is self-effacing and limpid.

One of my interlocutors, Chris Banks, put the matter quite well:

People are either terrified of being accessible, or terrified of meaning itself, leaving nothing for critics to puzzle out, or else are more interested in the surprise, the bizarre, the magic trick ahhhhh….

Problem is we need more perceptive readers of poetry who can establish what a poem is trying to do without equating sincerity with shortcomings, accessibility with simplicity, etc. I long for a day when we don’t have to announce a book has formalist elements on the jacket copy of books in this country. However, if you don’t, no one looks for such elements.

At a time in English-language poetry in North America when the poem that draws attention to its artfulness in various ways for various reasons is arguably in the ascendant, perhaps it’s time reconsider à rebours the innate and intricate artfulness of the poem that doesn’t parade its poeticity in “a coat / Covered with embroideries” but that takes up the challenge that “there’s more enterprise / In walking naked.”

To wit, I direct the interested reader to an intentionally perverse close analysis of the prosody of a brief poem by Elaine Equi, “Prescription”.

 

Multiversic takes on 9/11

Despite its being the fifteenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks Sunday, I had decided to, here, pass over the event in silence. Then, The Griffin Trust website posted Fanny Howe’s “9/11”.

I was struck—as I often am—by the commentary accompanying the poem:

Is it virtually impossible to write about certain events that are too immense, too devastating, too charged on so many levels? To go into the specifics, one risks being maudlin, self-absorbed, short-sighted, too emotional. To try to broaden the discussion and perhaps recklessly try to scale something to the universal, one risks being too political, polarizing or simply missing the mark.

Howe’s poem, of course, avoids being too “self-absorbed” and “too political”—by “suggesting the heart of the event’s impact, is how it affects who and what we love.” I wonder what the commentator thinks of Shelley’s The Mask of Anarchy or Charles Reznikoff’s Testimony or Holocaust.

By way of contrast and to broaden and concretize the discussion, let me offer these two poetic texts that both fail to escape the commentator’s extremes: “The Tao of 9/11”  by Peter Dale Scott (that both goes “into specifics” and is “too political”) and one of my own, excerpted from a longer work, that, too, is “too specific,” composed, as it was, in real time.

Writing a poetry including history is no easy matter, and the question how far the “heart of the matter” escapes history’s particulars and the machinations of power no less demanding.

 

Looking over Don McKay’s Collected Poems

bull-calf-logo-website1The new number of The Bull Calf is on-line, with 800 words of mine glancing over Don McKay’s collected poems, Angular Unconformity.

There are, as well, notices of Phil Hall’s selected poems, Guthrie Clothing, and Jacob Wren’s novel Polyamorous Love Song, along with much else calling for attention.

 

 

Listening for the Heartbeat of Being

9780773546349McGill-Queen’s University Press has just issued a collection of criticism on the work of Robert Bringhurst, Listening for the Heartbeat of Being: The Arts of Robert Bringhurst, edited by Brent Wood of the University of Toronto and Mark Dickinson of OCAD University.

I therefore seems timely to repost a link to a short essay on Robert Bringhurst’s poetry, which can be read here.

Marianne Dashwood and the Nobel Prize Committee, or how historical comparisons are ahistorical

280px-Hammond-SS12The Véhicule Press Blog  has posted a short extract from Jeremy Noel-Tod’s upcoming book of criticism The Whitsun Wedding Video: A Journey into British Poetry that’s woven a snarling thread on Facebook where it was shared. It’s a thread I don’t want to get caught up in, as what concerns me, the extract’s main rhetorical ploy, comparing William Cowper’s reputation to Seamus Heaney’s, has so far gone unreflected, and to remark the ironic ahistoricism of Noel-Tod’s gesture requires more space than a Facebook comment thread.

Noel-Tod’s point is that, because Cowper and Heaney are both “rural, reflective” poets who ironise “poetry’s grand manner with conversational self-consciousness and modest domesticity,” it is imaginable that just as Cowper’s reputation has waned, so might Heaney’s. Noel-Tod seems to present as evidence of Cowper’s status, either naively or tongue-in-cheek, the passionate enthusiasm of Jane Austen’s character from Sense and Sensibility (1811), Marianne Dashwood, almost “driven wild” by Cowper’s “beautiful lines.”

Noel-Tod’s historical comparison is risibly insensitive to history. It is two very different things to be a “rural, reflective” poet in early Nineteenth Century England and in modern Northern Ireland, as the relation between country and city and the nature of that country-side itself undergo radical changes over the course of the hundred-and-fifty years the comparison elides. It is equally two different poetic gestures to ironise the grand manner of England’s Augustan poets and to write in the aftermath of Yeats, whose cold, hard late poetry had already brought to earth the self-confessed Romanticism of his early verse. Finally, to imagine that a poet’s “reputation” in 1811 is comparable to a poet’s “reputation” in 2015 is to overlook among many, many changes the crisis of High Art thematized by literary Modernism. The problem with Noel-Tod’s comparison is that it seems to assume that history, temporal distance and the difference in context this distance registers, doesn’t exist:  his “Authors are in Eternity.”

The converse to Noel-Tod’s abstraction are those schools of criticism that would explain an author’s reputation in purely sociological or ideological terms, an approach that is no more true to its object than Noel-Tod’s. Marx, famously, raised the question of how art from historically and socially  distant cultures, e.g. Greek tragedy, can still possess undeniable aesthetic power. Neither appeals to some transcendent human condition nor the workings of ideology satisfactorily extract us from Marx’s quandary or the claims that art can make on us. What is interesting is precisely this curious power of art in and over time, a question of perhaps more value and promise than that of “reputation.”

Concerning Instant Delight

Maybe I’m just irritable, but Craig Raine’s recent review of Seamus Heaney’s two-volume selected poems rubs me the wrong way. It’s hardly that I take exception to Raine’s high estimation of Heaney’s poetry. My concern is with the aesthetic doctrine that underwrites Raine’s laudation and its overbearing triumphal tone.

Raine holds up what might be termed Heaney’s gift for mimesis as the poet’s singular virtue:  “He can describe things.” The “ready pleasure” and “obvious likeness” of  “A rowan like a lipsticked girl” is one example of the poet’s deft descriptions “pleasurable because they are accurate and irrefutable.” Heaney’s work displays other achievements—”an ear, a feel for syllables and rhythm, for verbal music”—but, “[u]nless a poet can produce this ungainsayable instant delight …, the poetry is automatically of the second order.”

short ciliary nerveRaine opens his review remarking how one kind of latter-day mime, “the impersonator — Rory Bremner, Steve Coogan — speaks, in different voices, to a single primitive pleasure centre in his audience” that results in a “release of neurotransmitters, the flood of endorphins,” of a kind with that “drench of dopamine” produced by the “ungainsayable instant delight” that is the sine qua non of poetry.

However rhetorical the appeal to the brain’s  “primitive pleasure centre” might be here, it is one with Raine’s consistent affirmation of the immediacy of the well-wrought poetic image: where the description is “obvious” the delight is “ready,” “instant,” and “ungainsayable.” Happily, one need not right away allude to two centuries or so of philosophical reflection on the untenability of Raine’s assumptions here as the review itself can’t toe the line it draws.

However much “Heaney records things as they come, democratically, unaware of hierarchy” not all such things are democratically given. Raine has to expend over a quarter of the review glossing Heaney’s poems that deal with Irish or Greek myth in order to make clear how they expose what is “immovably rooted in us.” This example of overt intertextuality reveals that Heaney not so much “gives us ‘The song of the tubular steel gate in the dark / As he pulls it to’”—how could I appreciate the description if I hadn’t already heard such a gate being opened or closed?—but rather represents things whose representation is striking only if I’m already acquainted with them. Raine himself refers to how Heaney’s poetry “can describe things in a phrase…the sound a football makes when kicked — ‘it thumped / but it sang too, / a kind of dry, ringing / foreclosure of sound.’ Remember?”

It’s not just that the instant delight of poetry’s descriptions arrives only by means of a detour through other texts or experiences. Raine calls the endorphins unconsciously released by our perception of imitation “brandies of the brain,” a variety of spirit, like any, whose appreciation is hardly reflexive but must be conscientiously cultured, unless Raine is likening the pleasures of poetry to sheer inebriation. Indeed, our brains are “flooded with endorphins” only through our “connivance,” imaginably what Coleridge termed the suspension of disbelief, the mental process that mediates the seemingly natural, reflexive immediacy of the kind of poetic mimesis Raine values so highly.

It’s a moribund, simplistic empiricism that underwrites Raine’s aesthetics here and that leads him to disparage so roundly the kind of poetry that to his mind is only

an endless marathon of ambiguity, a joyless game of patience for adepts. The Cambridge School of Poetry, in fact, turning its back on pleasure, snubbing the audience, withholding the endorphins, proffering perpetual difficulty, disparaging ‘descriptive decadence’.

His own review bears witness to the schooling, shared experience, and connivance that admit one to a cognoscenti, that club of connoisseurs capable of appreciating the refined delicacy of Heaney’s phanopoeia. Indeed, this sneering dismissal of others’ pleasures tears the mask from the undisputed naturalness of his own and shows the logic of his review to be little more than an argumentum ad nauseum.

One could continue the dispute, along various lines. Leaving aside for the moment the reflections that might imaginably be offered in support or explanation of the poetic pleasures of the Cambridge School and its audience, one might wonder what value Raine’s aesthetic would place on the “endless marathon of ambiguity, [and] joyless game of patience for adepts” that is Geoffrey Hill’s poetry. (The briefest research turns up Raine’s high regard for Hill’s poetry, too). More pointedly:  is one to infer from Raine’s assumptions that the much more discursive and clearly less musically sophisticated poetry of Emily Dickinson is “second order”?

There remains, nevertheless, as there must be, an arguably truer value remarked in Raine’s review, albeit the one he esteems lower than imagery, “an ear, a feel for syllables and rhythm, for verbal music.” The irrefutable charm of poetry’s music transcends even understanding a poem’s words. Another poet whose work can often seem a game for adepts is Dante, whose Canzone “Voi che ‘ntendendo il terzo ciel movete” testifies to the eminence of sound over sense, concluding famously

Canzone, io credo che saranno radi
color che tua ragione intendan bene,
tanto la parli faticosa e forte.
Onde, se per ventura elli adivene
che tu dinanzi da persone vadi
che non ti paian d’essa bene acorte,
allor ti priego che ti riconforte,
dicendo lor, diletta mia novella:
“Ponete mente almen com’io son bella!”

My song, I think they will be few indeed
Who’ll rightly understand your sense,
So difficult and complex is your speech.
So if by chance it comes to pass
That you should find yourself with some
Who do not grasp it well at all,
I pray you then, dear newborn song,
Take courage again and say to them:
“Consider at least how fair I am!”

Here, Dante, the learned poet he is, knows what the ancient Greeks meant by mimesis: “not only the portrayal or description of visible and tangible things, but more especially the expression of a mood or feeling, hence the (to a modern) paradox that music is the most imitative of the arts.”