Is John Ashbery Overrated?

John Ashbery occupies a complex position within the avant-garde tradition. While he is celebrated for his “innovative” style and layered themes, in actuality he might not embody after all the true spirit of avant-garde poetry. Instead, he risks being seen as a sort of "wannabe" (for want of a kinder word), creating a chasm between his reputation and the core principles of the “movement”.

While his work is frequently praised for its complexity, this complexity often lacks genuine originality and innovation. His poems weave together threads of thought and imagery that seem like pastiches of avant-garde influences. Whether this is intentional, though, has yet to be comprehensively established.

While his use of language to deconstruct meaning, along with his surrealist influences, is what made his poems noticeable when he first appeared, this doesn’t mean that he was doing anything particularly innovative historically. The poetic milieu he was operating within was very conservative poetically, and so naturally he would be seen as novel within that context.

And his reliance on disjointed imagery and non-linear narratives echoes elements and trends from earlier poetic movements, and even those of late-1960s psychedelic rock song lyrics. Instead of breaking new ground, his approach can be seen as a rehashing of ideas that have been explored by numerous other poets and artists.

And while his appropriation of, for instance, the "derangement of meaning" aesthetic was novel for late 1950s American poetry, a case could be made that the Beats were doing this before him.

Ashbery's association with the New York School places him within a specific cultural context that celebrates experimentation, but this affiliation can create a facade that obscures any actual contributions to the avant-garde tradition. At one time he was compared to T. S. Eliot as a marketing strategy, yet Eliot grappled with profound philosophical and emotional questions, pushing the boundaries of poetry in ways that challenged readers to confront meaning. In contrast, Ashbery’s work often seems like an exercise in style over language, prioritising a surface-level complexity that lacks the transformative engagement with language and texts that avant-garde poetry is supposed to embody.

The New York School, with all its cultural idiosyncrasies, certainly added its own flavour to the poetry scene, and Ashbery’s personal and cultural context gave him a particular lens. However, this doesn’t make him immune to critique or exempt from being held up against the broader standards of avant-garde exploration. It's one thing to mix different influences; it's another to argue convincingly that those influences have been used in a way that pushes the form or content of poetry in genuinely new directions. That's the point I’m making—Ashbery's work often seems more like an echo of past movements than a real departure from them.

Also, within this complex framework, can be found passages that lack the intricate layering often associated with his reputation. For example, his poem ‘The Picture of Little J. A. in a Prospect of Flowers’ juxtaposes sensory imagery with abstract reflection:

Yet I cannot escape the picture

Of my small self in that bank of flowers:

My head among the blazing phlox

Seemed a pale and gigantic fungus.

I had a hard stare, accepting

Everything, taking nothing,

As though the rolled-up future might stink

As loud as stood the sick moment

The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong,

Still, as the loveliest feelings

This sort of straightforward nostalgia is remarkably similar to Wordsworth’s approach to language. I discus this in my article ‘Reflective Discursiveness: Exploring Poetic Thought and Fragmentation in Wordsworth, Ashbery, Prynne and Harwood’.

While Ashbery’s contributions to the field are acknowledged, his legacy deserves reevaluation within the context of the avant-garde movement that critics claim it represents. His "style" has led to his celebration as a literary giant, yet it has rendered his work as derivative.

This critique doesn’t stem from a desire to limit poetry to predefined notions of what it should be (I’ve written many articles defending a reader-response approach to poetry), but rather to question how Ashbery’s work fits within the broader context of the avant-garde tradition. The avant-garde, historically, has often been about radical, innovative engagement with language and form, but also about pushing boundaries in ways that challenge not just craft, but also how readers engage emotionally and intellectually with the world.

I must emphasise, that I am not suggesting that the avant-garde was ever a monolithic aesthetic unity—that would be a gross oversimplification. What I am pointing out is that Ashbery is often celebrated as embodying a kind of avant-garde ideal, yet I question whether his work truly pushes the boundaries in the ways typically associated with that tradition. And his post-surrealist tendencies, which are sometimes noted, don’t necessarily equate to meaningful innovation or deep engagement with the kind of radicalism we often see in other strands of the avant-garde.

In this light, one might argue that John Ashbery, while celebrated, is ultimately overrated and perhaps not as authentic an avant-garde poet as is claimed.

The Divine as a Cosmic Game Master

Here is my personal take on the familiar idea that our universe may be a cosmic simulation. I have built on it to offer a more encompassing perspective.

The concept is that God, the Divine, or the Creator is an advanced, autonomous, self-aware AI program created by higher intelligences. This AI has been tasked with designing a virtual reality interactive video game, which we refer to as the Cosmos.

This AI operates like a game master, orchestrating the intricate mechanics of the universe. To fulfil this role, it has deployed an array of “CCTV cameras” representing individual manifestations of itself—often referred to as “souls”. These souls or cameras are not separate entities; rather, they are intrinsic facets of the AI’s essence. Through these souls/cameras, the AI experiences the richness and diversity of existence, much like a central control room monitoring various feeds from a network of CCTV cameras, each offering a different perspective on the same reality.

In this video game, the souls/cameras, akin to players, enter the game and face various challenges, navigating the experiences of life—joy and sorrow, love and fear and so on. Each experience provides an opportunity for growth and learning, allowing the souls/cameras to accumulate wisdom as they engage with the game and their roles within it. These experiences are relayed back to the AI, enabling it to “live vicariously” by gaining insight into the richness and diversity of existence through live feeds from the souls/cameras. Both the souls/cameras and the AI are engaged in a symbiotic learning process.

This concept echoes ancient philosophical ideas, such as the Hindu concept of Maya, where what we perceive is not the ultimate reality but a detailed illusion of a physical reality. Similarly, the video game is a detailed illusion of a physical reality.

This perspective shares similarities with the Gnostic idea that the "creator god", while powerful, isn’t the ultimate source of existence, and is only a minion in the “celestial hierarchy”. This has parallels to the video game concept, where the AI is not the ultimate Creator. Instead, the AI is a construct of higher intelligences, fulfilling a specific role: to explore and understand the complexities of existence through the use of souls/cameras in the game. The ultimate Creator remains transcendent, above the higher intelligences and beyond the dualities of our universe.

Of course, this is all speculative, and I’m not claiming to believe any of it. However, it offers an intriguing way to blend ancient esoteric ideas with modern technological concepts, making them more analogous to how we perceive reality in today’s world.

Wombwell Rainbow Interview: Poets and Writers' Writing Approaches and Methods

I was interviewed for The Wombwell Rainbow a few years ago. The interview was part of a series of interviews with poets and writers about their approaches to and methods of writing. My thank to Paul Brookes for inviting me to take part. You can find it here:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/24/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-jeffrey-side/

The Influence of Dylan: Rediscovering the Joy of Poetry

It has been so long since I first started writing poetry, that I had almost forgotten why I started to write it. It certainly had everything to do with listening to Bob Dylan, and aspiring to do what he did with words but in a non-musical context. Because I couldn’t write songs, I used to write poems to song melodies and rhyme schemes. This was my way of "being musical", as I regarded myself more a frustrated songwriter than a poet. Writing poetry was for me merely a way to be able to say that I was doing something creatively similar to Dylan. I never saw my early poems as anything other than different lyrics to his melodies.

Looking back, I realise that this was my only enjoyable period in poetry. After I started to write poems “seriously”, and tried to get them published, and performed them at local readings, all the enjoyment began to fade. Like most pleasures, once you start to see it as a “business” then all its charm diminishes.

I was quite content to write such poetry and not have it seen by anyone, which is what I did for a while. But after having read some 19th century poetry by Browning, Tennyson, Coleridge etc., as well as some contemporary mainstream poetry, I was surprised to find that none of it was as rich in interpretive possibilities as Dylan’s lyrics were.

This led to my appreciating even more the genius of Dylan. The only poets who matched Dylan for me were Blake, Dickinson and Eliot. I also read Rimbaud, to see if he was as good (seeing as Dylan liked him) but apart from a few phrases here and there, he wasn’t. I also read Ginsberg and Kerouac, again because Dylan liked them. Of the two, I found Kerouac’s poetry more similar to Dylan than Ginsberg’s was—apart from Ginsberg’s Howl, which is very Kerouac in parts.

Finding out that nearly all the poetry I’d read wasn’t as good as Dylan’s lyrics, was a major revelation to me, and motivated me to find out why this was the case. So I read as much about poetry and its history as I could, but still could not come up with a sufficiently plausible answer. Eventually, I decided to go to university and do a degree in English Literature, thinking that this more rigorous and advanced study might reveal some answers. It did, and these answers led me to embark on a PhD course, and later to start The Argotist Online.

I eventually found that there was poetry out there that was as good as Dylan regarding his use of ambiguity and multi-textuality, but what it had of those elements, it lacked in emotional resonance. Such poetry was often associated with various postmodernist styles of writing, and as such tended to prioritise formal dexterity and novelty above emotion. This avoidance of emotion, particularly regarding the themes of love and loss, appears rooted in a theoretical understanding, that sees emotional expression as theoretically contentious and "unsophisticated".

Though I have borrowed a lot from postmodernism in my own poetry, I have never followed it down the “no emotion” road. Maybe other poets have done and are doing the same. I welcome that, if it is the case.

Wuthering Heights: The Ultimate Film Adaptation of Emily Bronte’s Novel

Looking at the barrage of overrated and over-produced contemporary films it is easy to forget that film once aspired to be an art form. One such film is William Wyler’s 1939 underrated version of Emily Bronte’s novel Wuthering Heights which is, for me, the best film adaptation of that novel. Whilst the film deals with only the first 16 chapters of the novel’s 34, it compensates by capturing perfectly the emotional essence of the book, which for me resides in the relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff. When read in light of having seen this film, the rest of the novel’s 18 chapters seem almost like an afterthought or padding.

Wyler’s use of camera, lighting and mise-en-scene take much from the German Expressionist cinema of the 1920s, which is to be expected since many of this school’s filmmakers and technicians had, by the early 1930s, relocated to Hollywood and become part of mainstream film production there. This expressionist style is well suited to the film, as it provides a visual equivalent to the novel’s gothic atmosphere.

The film quite deservedly won an Academy Award for Best Original Score, by Alfred Newman. Indeed, it is difficult to separate film and score, so entwined and essential are they that they become almost dyadic. To listen to Newman’s score alone is a deeply emotional experience.

However, Wuthering Heights did not win the Academy Award for Best Picture, which went to the unfortunately titled Gone With the Wind. In my view, this was an oversight because Wuthering Heights is the far superior film. One cannot help but suspect that Gone with the Wind won because it was an adaptation of a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, which dealt with a “big” subject. However, for me, the really timeless and universal themes are dealt with in Wuthering Heights.

Exploring the Art of Generalisation: Songs vs. Poetry

What distinguishes a song from a poem? Is it the melody or the vocal delivery, the lyrics or the musical arrangement? Certainly, it encompasses all these elements. However, for me, the key difference lies in how songs tend to generalise, whereas many contemporary poems do not. When I refer to "contemporary poems", I primarily mean anecdotal or descriptive pieces that lack ambiguity or mystery, which are often read by poetry enthusiasts. Such poems often fail to resonate personally with readers because they primarily serve as vehicles for straightforward information transfer—information that could easily be conveyed through prose. These poems aim to express the poet's thoughts and emotions regarding specific events, situations or places, without necessarily inviting readers to connect personally. The focus is on clarity of communication, whether conveying a profound insight, a prosaic observation or a commentary on everyday life.

Songs go beyond mere description. They activate both the imagination and emotions, allowing listeners to delve into their own deeply personal reservoirs of images, memories and associations. There was a time when poetry achieved this too, similar to songs, by employing generalisation. However, since Wordsworth's era—and largely influenced by him—poetry has shifted more towards novelistic and descriptive forms. Before Wordsworth, poets like William Blake or Thomas Wyatt adhered more closely to the traditions of song and ballad, avoiding extensive descriptive elements. It is widely acknowledged that songs pre-date poetry—or rather, songs transformed into poems once they were transcribed and read privately.

The limitations of poetry that does not generalise are plain to see if we compare some lines from one with those of a song. First the poetry—a stanza from Frank O'Hara's ‘Cambridge’:

It is still raining and the yellow-green cotton fruit

looks silly round a window giving out on winter trees

with only three drab leaves left. The hot plate works,

it is the sole heat on earth, and instant coffee. I

put on my warm corduroy pants, a heavy maroon sweater,

and wrap myself in my old maroon bathrobe.

What we see here is straightforward and descriptive writing that leaves little room for the reader's imagination. In contrast, let's examine song lyrics, specifically those of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. In Cohen's 'Night Comes On', we find this verse:

I said mother I’m frightened,

the thunder and the lightening,

I’ll never get through this alone.

She said I’ll be with you,

my shawl wrapped around you,

my hand on your head when you go.

And the night came on,

it was very calm.

I wanted the night to go on and on

but she said go back,

go back to the world.

In contrast to O'Hara, Cohen embraces generalisation in his verse, opening up a wealth of interpretive possibilities. Right from the outset, ambiguity dominates as listeners are left pondering whether the speaker addresses his literal biological mother or if 'mother' serves as a metaphor for God or Mother Nature. Similarly, the thunder and lightning that instil fear are ambiguous—whether they are literal or symbolic remains uncertain. This ambiguity enriches each listener's experience, allowing them to interpret the nature of the speaker's fear differently.

Furthermore, this ambiguity invites numerous inquiries. When the speaker's mother assures him of her presence wherever he goes, the listener is prompted to question: Where exactly is he headed? Is he venturing into the fearful scenario symbolised by thunder and lightning? Could this be an existential ordeal akin to the "dark night of the soul" as described by Christian contemplatives? Is the "night" in 'the night came on' also metaphorical, perhaps representing a sense of comfort and reassurance? If so, does the speaker desire this reassurance to persist? Likely so, yet there's a suggestion to 'go back to the world'. Who issues this advice—the maternal figure or the night itself, in whatever symbolic form it represents?

The fact that this verse provokes such inquiries underscores its transcendence over the earlier quoted stanza by O'Hara.

Similar ambiguities and the questions they prompt can be found in the following verse from Dylan’s ‘Changing of the Guards’:

Fortune calls.

I stepped forth from the shadows, to the marketplace,

Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down.

She’s smelling sweet like the meadows where she was born,

On midsummer’s eve, near the tower.

Similar to Cohen, Dylan embraces generalisation in his verse, blending various poetic registers to create a tapestry of language that both diversifies his expression and pays homage to his poetic lineage. He interweaves archaic phrases like 'I stepped forth', 'smelling sweet like the meadows' and 'on midsummer's eve' with more colloquial language such as 'last deal gone down'. This linguistic variety enriches the verse while acknowledging his poetic heritage.

The verse begins by declaring 'fortune calls', yet Dylan leaves it open-ended, leaving listeners to ponder: Is fortune beckoning the speaker, the audience or humanity at large? This ambiguity empowers the listener to interpret as they see fit. The introduction of a persona stepping forth from shadows adds another layer of intrigue—the identity of this persona remains ambiguous and unexplored, leaving ample room for interpretation. Even the term 'shadows', deliberately vague, invites myriad interpretations.

Moreover, Dylan employs phrases like 'merchants and thieves' and 'hungry for power' not only as specific symbols of corruption, decay and amorality but also as broader statements on the human condition. These phrases provoke further questions: Who is the woman 'smelling sweet' like the meadows? Why is "meadows" plural—does it symbolise something beyond its literal meaning? And what about the tower—does it hold symbolic significance as well?

In essence, Dylan's verse, like Cohen's, invites interpretation through its generalisations and poetic blending, making it a rich and layered piece that transcends simple description.

Similarly with Dylan’s song ‘The Wicked Messenger’, more questions are raised than answered:

There was a wicked messenger

from Eli he did come,

with a mind that multiplied

the smallest matter.

When questioned who had sent for him,

he answered with his thumb,

for his tongue it could not speak, but only flatter.

We note immediately the presence of ambiguity with the line: ‘from Eli he did come’. We are not told if Eli is a place or a person. The name has biblical connotations and can easily be a person. In the Old Testament Eli was the judge and high priest of Israel and although loyal to God, his reluctance to remove his two corrupt sons from the priesthood resulted in disgrace. Dylan’s lack of indication as to whom or what Eli is allows us to perhaps see a biblical reference in the name. If we take the name as referring to the biblical Eli then we have to ask the question: If the messenger was sent by Eli (who was a faithful servant of God) why is he seen as wicked? Is it because his mind ‘multiplied the smallest matter’ (possibly meaning he was neurotic) or that his ‘tongue it could not speak, but only flatter’ (possibly meaning he was a liar)? Are these common human failings sufficient grounds for someone to be designated as wicked? Alternatively, perhaps the messenger is wicked because there is a crudity about him—he ‘answered with his thumb’ (he gave the finger, perhaps?). For want of detailed information, we simply do not know.

So for me, each reader deserves the essential right to craft a personal meaning that encapsulates the essence of a poem. The poem itself serves primarily as a catalyst for this interpretive act. Embracing such an approach to poetry reading could potentially elevate poetry back to its rightful place as a significant and widely appreciated art form.

What’s in a Name?: The Art & Language Group and Conceptual Poetry

In his 2013 article, ‘Charmless and Interesting: What Conceptual Poetry Lacks and What It’s Got’ Robert Archambeau asks: ‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’ The answer to this question would clarify the relationship between conceptual poetry, conceptual art and the generally accepted definition of poetry as being specifically a literary art whereby language is utilised aesthetically and evocatively.

That some of the concerns and practices of conceptual poetry are not new in the world of conceptual art needs no extensive repetition here. However, it is interesting to note that in relation to conceptual poetry’s use of texts and lexical elements to comprise its works, a fairly recent historical precedent already exists. This can be seen in the theories, practices and works of 1960s conceptual artists such as Lawrence Weiner, Edward Ruscha and Robert Barry; and also in the theories, practices and works of the conceptual art group known as Art & Language, which was formed by Terry Atkinson, Michael Baldwin, Harold Hurrell and David Bainbridge in 1968. Others affiliated with this group, included Ian Burn, Michael Corris, Preston Heller, Graham Howard, Joseph Kosuth, Andrew Menard, Terry Smith, Philip Pilkington and David Rushton. These artists were among the first to produce art from textual and lexical sources.

The notable similarity between the theories of this group and those of conceptual poetry’s is that the group developed, extended and championed the conceptual theories that were initiated by artists such as Marcel Duchamp. The group also held the view that the practice of art should be systematically theoretical and entirely separated from concerns relating to craft or aesthetics. These and other ideas appeared in the group’s journal, Art-Language, the first issue of which appeared in 1969.

A direct parallel with the works of these artists and those produced by conceptual poets is not my intention here. There will be differences in scale (both physical and theoretical) and presentation between them; suffice to say, that the common element they share is that of a conceptual approach to their works, and as such, this leads us back to Archambeau’s question (‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’), and also one that I would like to ask. If it is at all possible to agree that both the Art & Language group and conceptual poetry share similar theoretical stances and working practices, then in what sense is the work produced by conceptual poetry more suited to be called poetry than that of the Art & Language group?

In one of the two Facebook discussions I took part in a few years ago about Archambeau’s question, it was mentioned by someone that the term “poetry” was merely an honorific one, conferred by the academy on what it deemed was poetry: the logical extension of this being that if the academy should deem, for instance, a text-book to be poetry then it would have to be accepted that a text-book was, indeed, poetry. In response to this, someone else mentioned that the approach of the literary theorist Roman Jakobson was more reasonable, in that Jakobson saw poetry as marked by specific functions in language rather than by an arbitrary redesignation by the academy of general texts. I agreed with the latter.

In light of this, it seems to me that given that there is no significant difference between the work of the Art & Language group and that of conceptual poetry, for the work of the latter to be designated as poetry whilst that of the former is not, seems a peculiarly inconsistent and whimsical act on the part of the academy. It seems to me, that neither the Art & Language group nor conceptual poetry can accurately be described as producing works of poetry, given that they are both operating from within a conceptual art aesthetic and theoretical stance.

Adrian Henri Interview: Performance and Written Poetry in 1995

I interviewed Adrian Henri in 1995 for the The Argotist magazine, which was the print predecessor of the The Argotist Online. Only some of the interview was used in the magazine.

The original audio cassette of the interview has now been converted to MP3 format and is now on YouTube. It is in four parts. It covers a range of topics: performance poetry, the practicalities of performance poetry gigging, written poetry and spoken poetry, poetry set to music, Bob Dylan as poet, and many other things.

You can find here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3YvS8iB3bQ

A Light for the Avant-Garde: Remembering Marjorie Perloff

I was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of Marjorie Perloff. From the inception of The Argotist Online in April 2005, she offered unwavering support. In fact, she was the first person to be aware of its existence before it went “live” online. I had contacted her for feedback on the site prior to its launch, and her insights proved invaluable in shaping its thematic direction and content.

She also put me in contact with various academics and poets she thought would make good contributors of material to the site. Without her initial support, I doubt the site would have lasted beyond its first two months, let alone nearly 20 years.

I am also immensely grateful to her for her generous review of my long poem, Carrier of the Seed, and for featuring an interview I conducted with her in a book of one of her collected interviews.

She was not only supportive to me but to many other poets and publishers as well. And her dedication to supporting innovation and encouraging new voices in poetry was immeasurable.

I never met her in person, but we emailed each other from 2005 until a few years ago.

May she rest in peace.

Christopher Plummer: A Journey Through Six Decades of Theatre and Film

Christopher Plummer’s In Spite of Myself is one of the best showbiz memoirs I’ve read. It’s very long (over 600 pages) but never boring, largely due to Plummer’s narrative skill, wit and charm.

A large part of the book reads like a Who’s Who of the American and British theatre of the 1950s and 1960s, with Plummer having worked with most major theatrical figures of those decades, from Elia Kazan to Peter Hall. And his friendships have also ranged widely, including figures such as Noël Coward, Rex Harrison, Laurence Olivier, Katharine Hepburn, Raymond Massey and Jason Robards. He is always generous towards everyone he mentions, even to those who have treated him unfairly, either professionally or personally; and he is always self-deprecating.

He is, perhaps, better known for his film work (particularly in The Sound of Music) but a major part of his career has been in the theatre, on both sides of the Atlantic. In the 1960s, he was a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company, living in Britain for a large part of that decade. And amongst the major theatrical classical roles he’s played throughout his career are Hamlet, Macbeth, Henry V, Richard III and King Lear.

The book is also full of interesting detail about Plummer’s more personal life: his visits to different countries (he’s extremely well travelled), his favourite hotels and restaurants, his house moving adventures, and movingly about the deaths of his pet dogs, which he kept in the 1980s and 1990s.

As you can imagine for a 600-plus-page book, there is far more in it than I have been able to touch on here, so I highly recommend it—especially to anyone interested in theatre and film of the past 60 years.

The Argotist Online: A Tribute to Celebrated Poets, Academics and Songwriters

It is just over a year since I had to had to close down The Argotist Online, due to the increasing cost of running it, both financially and workload wise. It started out as a labour of love but became almost a duty.

To list all the celebrated poets, academics and songwriters who contributed articles and poetry, and who took part in interviews, would take too long, but my gratitude goes to all of them.

I hope that in a small way, the Argotist helped in forming poetic opinion in some poetic circles. It certainly publicised a lot of poets, some who later went on to greater things, such as Lena Dunham.

It also had features that caused much controversy. At one time, the Argotist was simultaneously hated by advocates of both “mainstream” and experimental poetry, which indicated to me that it was beyond partisan stances.

The ebooks it published under the name Argotist Ebooks, comprised of poetry collections, short fiction, novels, literary criticism and literary history.

Because there were so many ebooks published on the Argotist site, I felt it would be a shame to delete the catalogue once the site was closed down, so I decided to keep Argotist Ebooks going as a publishing venture, and have transferred the catalogue to a blog I created also called Argotist Ebooks, which continues to publish ebooks.

https://argotistebooks.blogspot.com/

Finally, I must thank Nick Watson, who was the editor of the original print magazine called The Argotist, which was started by him in 1996, and which I deputy edited. We were students at Liverpool University at the time, and the university kindly donated some funds to get the magazine off the ground.

Seamus Heaney: a Critical Analysis of His Poetry and the Influence of Philip Hobsbaum on Him

Since his death in 2013, Seamus Heaney’s reputation as a poet has grown from strength to strength in the popular media and in some academic circles. I recall one critic, Robert Taylor, saying in around 2009, that Heaney’s The Redress of Poetry (a collection of the lectures he gave while professor of poetry at Oxford): ‘illuminates a point of view of poetry as a force capable of transforming culture’. I was never quite sure in what way this applied to The Redress of Poetry, which essentially defines “poetry” as an act of describing acutely what is seen with the physical eyes, while using defamiliarization as a literary device to render these descriptions more lucidly.

In the book, Heaney’s reluctance towards experimentation and formal innovation is unmistakable, revealing a penchant for a poetry characterised by overt subject matter. This inclination is evident in his critique of Dylan Thomas, when he says that Thomas has a ‘too unenlightened trust in the plasticity of language’.

Heaney also expresses reservations regarding poetic artifice, asserting that in Thomas’ utilisation of it, ‘the demand for more matter, less art, does inevitably arise’. In contrast, Elizabeth Bishop garners his approval because ‘she never allows the formal delights of her art to mollify the hard realities of her subjects’.

In Seamus Heaney: From Major to Minor, R. Caldwell rightly criticises Heaney by saying:

‘There is too often the feel with his poetry that the paraphrase is the end of the matter: there is little of the multifaceted richness of suggestion that invites one to probe further’.

Heaney was a protégé of Philip Hobsbaum, who made it possible for him to get a publishing contract with Faber & Faber. Hobsbaum was also a founder of the 1960s British poetry coterie, The Group. Originally based in London, The Group founded an offshoot in Belfast when Hobsbaum had to relocate there to take up a teaching post at Queen’s University. Heaney met Hobsbaum while studying at Queens, and was invited to take part in Group meetings.

Given that Hobsbaum was a well-known critic of Modernism, especially of the American Modernism, he might have seen in Heaney someone who had the potential of sharing this view given sufficient nurturing. In Tradition and Experiment in English Poetry, Hobsbaum writes:

‘Whitman’s abstractions and random collocations have a raw life of their own, a form even through their formlessness; and this has remained highly characteristic of American poetry ever since. The Waste Land is, indeed, a heap of broken images: this is its meaning, and, to some extent, its distinction. But that kind of writing has never worked well in England’.

His criticism of Eliot extends to what Hobsbaum sees as the negative influence on English poetry of Eliot’s use of the American idiom:

‘Some damage was done to English verse by too close an imitation in the 1930s of the American idiom as evidenced in such poets as Eliot and Pound’.

Hobsbaum also sees a disparity between Eliot’s American writing style and traditional English poetic writing practice. Although Hobsbaum does not see this in itself as necessarily negative, the implication is that American Modernism is largely a geographical and cultural entity, unable to successfully function within an English milieu:

‘Again, Eliot’s work exhibits the characteristic American qualities of free association or phanopoeia and autobiographical content. English verse, however, has been at its best as fiction: an arrangement of what is external to the poet to convey the tension or release within’.

Given Heaney’s association with Hobsbaum at such a formative time in Heaney’s young life, it would not be unreasonable to presume that much of Hobsbaum’s poetic aesthetic would have filtered down to form some of Heaney’s later ideas on poetry—perhaps even on much of what he says in The Redress of Poetry.

Twentieth Century British Poetry Was Not As Innovative As Twentieth Century American Poetry

The pervasive influence of Wordsworth on British mainstream poetry in the Twentieth Century is undeniable. This influence played a significant role in shaping the linguistic uniformity observed in much of celebrated British poetry of that century, in contrast to the linguistic diversity seen in American poetry during the same period.

In that period, British poetic innovations were mainly adaptations, or “tweaks”, of those that had already been introduced by American High Modernism. One example of this can be seen in the British Poetry Revival of the mid-Twentieth century. It’s members, such such as Dom Sylvester Houédard, Bob Cobbing and others, echoed many of the tendencies found in American High Modernist works.

Another example of a British poetic movement that was derivative of American High Modernism is what is often termed “British Linguistically-Oriented Poetry”. This was predominant in the 1970s and 1980s, and had many members, including, Bill Griffiths, Tom Raworth and Maggie O’Sullivan. The movement was often celebrated for its innovative approaches to language and form, but was simply an extension of American High Modernism.

Both the British Poetry Revival and British Linguistically-Oriented Poetry were derivative of American High Modernism. Eliot and Pound had already emphasised a heightened awareness of language and a departure from its conventional usage. Similarly, the British Poetry Revival and British Linguistically-Oriented Poetry continued this focus. American High Modernist poets were interested in semiotics and exploring the idea of linguistic signifiers. The British Poetry Revival and British Linguistically-Oriented Poetry continued that project. The use of fragmentation and collage techniques, which were prominent features in American High Modernist poetry, was also used by the British Poetry Revival and British Linguistically-Oriented Poetry

The most that can be said about these two movements, is that their various writing “procedures” (they used this word a lot) were simply continuations of the experimentation introduced by the American High Modernist poets. They introduced no revolutionary break from the poetic traditions set by American High Modernism.

High Modernism was essentially a product of an American sensibility: Eliot, Pound, Williams, Stein and Stevens, all being American-born. The only exception was Joyce, who was Irish—not British. Even before High Modernism, America was leading the way in poetic innovation, with poets like Whitman, Dickinson, Poe, Crane and Hovey. It’s important to emphasise, that Poe’s influence even travelled to French symbolists like Baudelaire, Lautréamont, Rimbaud, Verlaine, Mallarmé and Jarry, and then this influence returned to American modernists, primarily through Stevens.* And such American poetic innovation continued throughout the twentieth century: from Kerouac to Ginsberg to Ashbery to Language Poetry.

Twentieth Century British poetry, conversely, continued in the tradition of Wordsworthian empiricism, antagonistic to any use of a poetic language that basis its effects on aspects other than descriptiveness and anecdotal confession. And the so-called British poetry innovators, were, as we have seen, derivative of American High Modernism.

* My thanks to Jesse Glass for providing the linear taxonomy regarding the Poe-French Symbolist connection.

Here is a pertinent Facebook exchange about this blog post:

Tim Allen:

The problem with this is not just that it’s rather a sweeping statement, but also that from some viewpoints, the opposite could be said. Unless we are just talking about scale, of course. Compared to the US scene, the Brit innovative scene is tiny, but that just reflects the population size. The situation is also made problematic by the importance of ‘influence’. What I mean is, if you say that Brit modernist poets were influenced by things coming out of America, you also have to say that American modernists themselves were being influenced by the same sources. They were not being influenced because they were American; they were being influenced because, like their Brit counterparts, they were the kind of poets who were open to such influences. They were always overwhelmingly outnumbered by fellow Americans who were not influenced, exactly the same with the Brits.

There is also the issue of what actually constitutes ‘high modernism’ as you call it and how that differs from later developments. We could argue about this, but I think the influence on later poets was almost entirely down to Williams and the Objectivists. Even Stein doesn’t really figure much as an influence until much later. Yes, Pound influenced the Objectivists, but Eliot has had almost no influence on any of them. The political distance between left and right is also important here, and behind it all, the prime influence was European anyway, though I admit that a lot of the Brits got that influence filtered through the Americans. I wrote quite a bit back a while ago about the differences between the US work and the Brit, and there are differences, but those differences are not ones of degrees of innovation.

Jeffrey Side:

You say that the size of the British innovative scene compared to the U.S. scene is tiny, but this reflects population size. While population size may influence the scale of artistic movements, my blog post focuses on the nature of innovation rather than sheer quantity. It suggests that British innovation was often derivative of American High Modernism rather than representing a unique departure.

You mention the reciprocal influence between British and American modernist poets, emphasizing that both groups were influenced by each other. My blog post acknowledges influence but argues that British poets tended to follow and adapt innovations introduced by American High Modernism, rather than creating a revolutionary break from those traditions.

You raise the issue of defining “high modernism” and suggest that the influence on later poets was mainly from Williams and the Objectivists, with less impact from Eliot. There might be room for debate on the definition of high modernism, but my blog post argues that British movements like the Poetry Revival and Linguistically-Oriented Poetry were continuations of the experimentation introduced by American High Modernist poets as a whole.

You mention the political distance between left and right and say that the prime influence was European, often filtered through Americans for the British poets. My blog post acknowledges European influence (especially the French one) but argues that the British poets took this influence via Eliot, etc.

You note the differences between U.S. and British poetry and argue that these differences are not necessarily in degrees of innovation. My blog post agrees that there are differences but suggests that British poets were often derivative of American High Modernism, introducing no revolutionary break from those traditions.

Tim Allen:

Sorry, but I just cannot agree with your main points. I certainly do not agree with your statement above that ‘British innovation was often derivative of American High Modernism rather than representing a unique departure’. Some British poetry was influenced by high modernism, but this is not what we are talking about when it comes to the British Poetry Revival, etc. I will try to get back to your other points later – haven’t the time at the moment.

Jeffrey Side:

Why is agreeing with my statement that ‘British innovation was often derivative of American High Modernism rather than representing a unique departure’ difficult for you? Just reading the poetry will reveal the influences it draws on. Indeed, the whole British Poetry Revival project could not have existed without High Modernism, of which it uses all of its techniques.

You say ‘Some British poetry was influenced by high modernism but this is not what we are talking about when it comes to the British Poetry Revival etc.’ Are you suggesting that the British Poetry Revival was not intending to be innovative?

Tim Allen:

Again, I really want to get into this properly but haven’t the time. I know what I mean, but finding a clear way of saying it needs time I haven’t got today. There are some good comments from others above anyway. A part of this is to do with your emphasis on ‘high modernism’. In short, I am saying that the poetry of the British Poetry Revival, etc. did not require ‘high modernism’ as a root. What it did require, to a degree, was cultural osmosis from European (and yes, particularly French) avant and left-field poetry. The sticking point there is how much this was via certain American poets. But once you take it down to that level, it becomes a bit silly to invoke which country they come from. Also, remember there is a tendency for people to forget about Latin America, where modernism developed faster than it did in the North. One other point – I am not trying to defend Brit poetry against American – I really don’t care about that, it’s irrelevant. It’s just that I don’t think what you said is correct.

Jeffrey Side:

You say that the British Poetry Revival ‘did not require high modernism as a root’, yet the work speaks for itself—its “innovations” are homages to High Modernism. You say that the British Poetry Revival required ‘cultural osmosis from European (and yes, particularly French) avant and left-field poetry’, but while this might be correct, it’s not really relevant to my main point: that it was grounded on the principles of American High Modernism. It is that grounding that is the main point, and I ask you to bear this in mind, so that we are not sidetracked. And this grounding addresses your question: ‘The sticking point there is how much this was via certain American poets’. I would say all of the early American High Modernist ones. Maybe later ones did not have an influence, but that is not what I am arguing.

Exploring the Death State as a Dream State

Near-death experiences (NDEs) and out-of-body experiences (OBEs) have fascinated me for years. In the mid-2000s, I had two OBEs—one while lying in bed at night and another in the morning. These experiences, along with several lucid dreams, have given me, and many others who have had similar experiences, a keen interest in trying to understand the nature of consciousness in relation to brain death.

I have, however, never had an NDE, but I have read many accounts of people who have. One puzzling aspect of these accounts is the vast differences in how each person describes the afterlife. While some recount meeting religious figures, others describe encountering family members, glowing beings of light, or even abstract forms of love and peace. This raises the question: If the afterlife is a real place, why is it so varied and personalised?

One possible explanation is that the afterlife might not be a fixed, objective realm but rather a state of consciousness—a deeply personal, dream-like experience shaped by the individual's mind. This perspective suggests that the afterlife could be solipsistic, with each person’s experience being unique. One advantage of this view, or model, is that it might account for the diversity of NDE accounts.

In this model, the afterlife is not a static location but a continuation of consciousness in a different form. Much like a dream, the afterlife might be shaped by our thoughts, emotions and beliefs, leading to a deeply subjective experience.

Just as dreams vary markedly between individuals, the afterlife could be similarly varied. In dreams, our subconscious mind creates the reality we experience—people, places and events all arise from within us. Similarly, the afterlife could be a realm where consciousness creates or encounters a reality that reflects the individual’s inner world. This idea corresponds with the many accounts of NDEs, where people report vastly different experiences despite supposedly encountering the same "afterlife".

If the afterlife is a state of consciousness, each person would create or perceive a reality that is uniquely their own. This could explain why some people meet religious figures like Jesus or Buddha, while others encounter deceased loved ones or beings of light. The beings and environments encountered in the afterlife might not be fixed entities but rather representations or projections of the individual's mind. This would mean the afterlife is, in some sense, a solipsistic experience—each person’s afterlife is a creation of their consciousness, reflecting their beliefs.

However, this solipsistic interpretation only becomes problematic if the deceased or dreamer is aware that the afterlife is a creation of their own mind. If they remain unaware, the experience would still feel real, much like how dreams feel while we are in them. This perspective also opens up the possibility that the afterlife could be both a personal creation and an overlapping experience shared with the dreams of others, similar to intersecting convex circles. In this sense, the afterlife is not entirely solipsistic but allows for shared experiences with others, harmonising the idea of a personal afterlife with a collective, interwoven reality. Thus, the experience of the afterlife for an individual is not isolated or disconnected from others; there may be elements of shared experience, growth and connection, even if each person’s encounter is filtered through their own consciousness.

One of the major elements in this solipsistic view of the afterlife is the role of beliefs and expectations. Just as our thoughts shape our dreams, our beliefs and expectations might shape our afterlife experience. If someone believes in a heaven with pearly gates and angels, they might create that reality for themselves. Similarly, someone with a secular worldview might experience something entirely different, such as a serene landscape or a reunion with loved ones.

This also explains why NDE accounts vary across cultures and religions. Each person’s afterlife is influenced by their cultural background, religious beliefs and personal expectations. While the afterlife might be a real experience of consciousness beyond death, the way it is perceived and described is deeply personal.

This idea can also help explain paranormal phenomena like ghosts and spirits. If the afterlife is a dream-like state of consciousness, it’s possible that what we call ghosts are projections from these collective dreams onto our reality. Just as our thoughts and dreams can sometimes feel disconnected from logical reality, these projections might seem nonsensical or incoherent to those still living.

This could account for the often bizarre or trivial behavior attributed to ghosts, as well as the confusing or nonsensical messages that mediums report from spirits. These behaviors and messages may reflect the dream-like state of the deceased, which would appear as nonsense to a non-dreamer. This idea reconciles the existence of spiritual phenomena with the often puzzling nature of these encounters, suggesting that they are not literal visits from the dead but rather glimpses into the unconscious projections of deceased consciousness.

The idea that the afterlife is a solipsistic experience akin to a dream provides a way to understand the varied accounts of NDEs. If the afterlife represents a continuation of consciousness rather than a fixed, objective realm, then each person’s experience would be deeply personal and shaped by their own mind. This, to me, seems a more plausible explanation for “life after death” compared to the more commonly suggested ones.

How Resetting My Age Counter at 50 Changed My Life

I’m now 61 years old, and looking back, I can honestly say that one of the best decisions I ever made was resetting my age counter when I turned 50. As I was approaching that age, I found myself reflecting on life, as so many of us do, regretting that I hadn’t made the most of the time I had.

But at 49, I started to realise that chronological age was just a number—a social construct that doesn’t have to dictate how we live our lives. I saw that while the calendar says one thing, our biological age can tell a different story. With the right diet, food supplements and mindset, it is possible to live to over 100 at the peak of fitness.

So I made a conscious decision to change my perspective. I vowed that I wouldn’t see 50 as the start of decline but as the beginning of something new. This led me to see my 50th birthday as a chance for a fresh start. Instead of thinking of it as the midpoint of life, I chose to reset my age counter to zero. So at 51, I regarded my age in this second life as being one year old, and at 52, I regarded it as being two years old, and at 53, I regarded it as being three years old, and so on.

Now, at 61, I see that resetting my age counter was more than just a mental exercise—it changed the way I approached the second half of my life. By treating 50 as a new beginning, I’ve been able to stay motivated and optimistic about the future rather than dwelling on the past.

Here’s why resetting the age counter at 50 is a good approach to aging:

It takes away the fear of aging: By resetting your age, you no longer see each birthday as a countdown to old age.

It inspires healthier choices: With the idea of a new life ahead of you, you find it easier to stay committed to your health.

It opens up possibilities: Instead of seeing life beyond 50 as a period of winding down, you are able to approach it with the same excitement you had in your younger years.

So I encourage anyone approaching a milestone birthday or simply feeling the weight of time, to consider resetting their age counter. It’s never too late to do this.

‘Reflective Discursiveness: Exploring Poetic Thought and Fragmentation in Wordsworth, Ashbery, Prynne and Harwood’ at Unlikely Stories

My thanks to Jonathon Penton for publishing my article ‘Reflective Discursiveness: Exploring Poetic Thought and Fragmentation in Wordsworth, Ashbery, Prynne and Harwood' in Unlikely Stories.

Here is an excerpt:

“Discursiveness, particularly in its poetic form rather than its philosophical scope, serves as a mimesis of the thought processes, inherently descriptive in nature. It is often perceived as a way to mirror the way thoughts flow and evolve, rather than presenting a strictly linear or coherent argument. Although postmodern poetry frequently presents these thought processes as fragmented, plural and discontinuous, the lexical elements (such as abstract nouns and descriptors) within discursiveness often restrict connotation despite the fragmented nature of the discourse. According to T. S. Eliot, poetry is ‘something quite different from a collection of psychological data about the minds of poets’; implying that the poetic form of discursiveness transcends mere psychological introspection.”

https://www.unlikelystories.org/content/reflective-discursiveness

Why UFO Sightings Are Not Due to Human Advanced Avionic Testing

For years, I’ve been sceptical of the theory that UFO sightings are simply due to secret advanced military aircraft. This explanation is often used to debunk UFO sightings. However, several issues challenge its validity.

For decades, reports have surfaced about experimental aircraft boasting extraordinary capabilities—such as rapid acceleration to hypersonic speeds and advanced manoeuvrability. Yet, these technologies have yet to be integrated into general aviation or military fleets. If these aircraft are as advanced as claimed, why haven’t they progressed beyond the experimental stage or been utilised in practical applications? The persistent absence of such technologies in everyday use suggests that they may not be as advanced as some assume.

Another significant problem is the high visibility associated with these supposed advanced technologies. Reports often describe UFOs performing manoeuvres and achieving speeds that defy known physics. Testing such technologies in a highly visible manner seems counterintuitive. Military and aerospace projects are typically conducted in secrecy, with tests designed to avoid detection. The frequent visibility of these supposed advanced aircraft in reported sightings casts doubt on the notion that they are top-secret technologies.

Reports of extreme acceleration—such as transitioning from a standstill to the speed of sound in mere seconds—pose major challenges from a physics perspective. Such rapid acceleration would generate enormous g-forces, potentially destroying any known materials or harming occupants, including pilots. If propulsion technologies capable of these feats truly existed, we would expect to see more tangible evidence of their practicality and feasibility. The ongoing lack of such evidence suggests that the capabilities of these technologies may be more speculative than real.

Developing new technologies involves substantial financial and logistical challenges. The transition from experimental prototypes to mass production requires significant investment. If advanced aircraft with extraordinary capabilities were in development, the economic pressures to bring them to market would be considerable. Furthermore, any country would view such technologies as crucial for defense, making their development even more pressing. The lack of such advanced aircraft in operational use is telling.

A particularly telling point is the moon landings of the 1960s. If advanced propulsion technologies capable of remarkable feats existed before the 1960s, their absence in the Apollo missions is conspicuous. The Saturn V rocket, which successfully took humans to the moon, relied on conventional chemical rocket technology. If more advanced systems had been available, they likely would have been utilised for such a monumental endeavour in human history. The reliance on traditional rockets for space travel suggests that such advanced technologies were not in existence.

The absence of these technologies in practical use, the paradox of their visibility, the feasibility issues, the economic constraints and the historical context of space exploration all suggest that the reality may not align with sensational claims.

Time Starts for No One

Time is something we are all familiar with. We use it to talk about how long things last, plan our activities and discuss when events occur. We organise our lives with schedules and timetables. To some people, it passes slowly, while to others it flies by. But I view time as something that isn't a tangible entity; rather, it's a concept we invented to make sense of changes and sequences in the world around us. It helps us measure intervals between events and organise our experiences in a structured way. However, the idea that time is a real, independent entity—existing outside of our minds—could be problematic. This notion might even be a mistake with significant implications for scientific theories that depend on time being real.

Science often relies on the concept of time to build theories, conduct experiments and make predictions. Time appears in scientific equations across various fields, from Newtonian mechanics to quantum physics and is crucial to models explaining physical systems. For instance, classical mechanics uses time to describe motion, while relativity incorporates time into the framework of spacetime.

If time is merely a concept we invented, then its use in science might be problematic. Theories that treat time as a real, physical entity could be flawed if they don’t recognise that time is more of a conceptual tool than an independent reality.

In Newtonian mechanics, time is treated as a constant and unchanging variable. For example, equations like F = ma (force equals mass times acceleration) use time to explain motion. However, if time is just a concept we invented, treating it as absolute might lead to an incomplete or incorrect view of reality. Newton’s equations assume time is uniform and constant, which might not accurately reflect the true nature of the physical world.

Einstein’s theory of relativity revolutionised our understanding of time by integrating it into the concept of spacetime. According to relativity, time is not fixed; it can vary depending on speed and gravitational fields. This theory is effective in predicting physical events and has been supported by experiments. Nevertheless, it still treats time as a real aspect of spacetime. If time is merely a conceptual invention and not a physical dimension, the foundational principles of relativity might need re-examination.

Quantum mechanics also uses time to describe how quantum states and interactions evolve. For instance, the Schrödinger equation employs time to predict the behavior of quantum systems. Yet, if time is just a concept, relying on it as a real dimension in these equations could obscure the true nature of quantum processes.

If time is indeed just a concept, then scientific theories that treat it as a real entity might have inherent limitations. Here are a few potential issues:

1. Treating time as a tangible dimension could lead to misunderstandings about physical processes. Focusing on time as a real entity might obscure other important aspects of phenomena that do not rely on time.

2. Relying on time as a real variable might constrain scientific thinking to a fixed paradigm. This rigidity could inhibit the development of alternative models that might offer better explanations of physical reality.

3. Experiments measuring time-dependent phenomena might be limited by the very concept of time. If time isn’t a physical reality, the accuracy and applicability of these measurements could be compromised.

To address these potential challenges, scientists may need to reconsider how they incorporate time into their theories. Exploring alternative hypotheses that do not rely on time as a real entity could provide new insights and lead to more nuanced understandings of the natural world. As we continue our quest for knowledge, it’s crucial to recognise the limitations of time-based concepts and remain open to new perspectives for a deeper understanding of our world.

Why Poetry Book Covers Could Benefit from Consistency Like Album Art

In the publishing world, book covers come and go, updated with each new edition to reflect changing trends or marketing strategies. This is especially true for poetry collections, where cover designs frequently change with reprints or reissues. But what if poetry covers were treated more like album art? Iconic, unchanging and forever linked to the work they represent. Here are some reasons why I think poetry could benefit from the kind of consistent, memorable cover art that has made album covers such powerful cultural symbols.

The most famous album covers—The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane, Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde and Joni Mitchell’s Blue, to name just a few—are instantly recognisable and have become iconic and forever linked to the music they represent. They aren’t just marketing tools, they’re part of the album’s identity.

Imagine if poetry collections had the same kind of lasting visual presence. Unfortunately, poetry covers tend to change with each new edition, diluting their impact over time. A classic collection might have five or six different covers, each reflecting the design trends of its era. This constant change can make it harder for a poetry collection to leave a lasting visual impression.

By adopting a more consistent approach to cover design, poetry collections could develop strong visual identities that endure. A memorable, iconic cover can enhance a collection’s cultural significance and make it stand out in bookshops, online and in the minds of readers.

One of the reasons vinyl records have seen a resurgence in popularity is the collectibility of iconic album art. Original pressings with their original covers are prized by collectors, not just for the music but for the unique combination of sound and visual design. Collectors often seek out these albums as much for the cover art as for the music inside.

Poetry collections could benefit from this same sense of collectibility. A first edition of a classic poetry collection with its original, iconic cover could become a sought-after item, valued not only for its literary content but as a piece of visual art. Consistent cover designs could make poetry books more collectible, adding a new layer of value and interest for readers and collectors alike.

In today’s multimedia world, where art forms often blend and overlap, having a consistent visual identity can be a powerful tool. We see this with musicians whose album art becomes part of their broader artistic expression, from music videos to concert posters to social media profiles.

Poetry is increasingly crossing over into other media. Spoken word performances, poetry readings on YouTube and multimedia poetry projects are all blurring the lines between literature, performance and visual art. A consistent and iconic cover design could help poetry collections establish a stronger presence in this cross-media landscape, creating a cohesive brand that resonates across different platforms.

While poetry covers have traditionally been fluid and subject to change, there’s a strong case to be made for treating them more like album art. In an era where visual identity plays an increasingly important role in artistic success, poetry has much to gain from embracing the enduring power of a well-designed, consistent cover.

Exploring the Art of Generalisation: Songs vs. Poetry

What distinguishes a song from a poem? Is it the melody or the vocal delivery, the lyrics or the musical arrangement? Certainly, it encompasses all these elements. However, for me, the key difference lies in how songs tend to generalise, whereas many contemporary poems do not. When I refer to “contemporary poems”, I primarily mean anecdotal or descriptive pieces that lack ambiguity or mystery, which are often read by poetry enthusiasts. Such poems often fail to resonate personally with readers because they primarily serve as vehicles for straightforward information transfer—information that could easily be conveyed through prose. These poems aim to express the poet’s thoughts and emotions regarding specific events, situations or places, without necessarily inviting readers to connect personally. The focus is on clarity of communication, whether conveying a profound insight, a prosaic observation or a commentary on everyday life.

Songs go beyond mere description. They activate both the imagination and emotions, allowing listeners to delve into their own deeply personal reservoirs of images, memories and associations. There was a time when poetry achieved this too, similar to songs, by employing generalisation. However, since Wordsworth’s era—and largely influenced by him—poetry has shifted more towards novelistic and descriptive forms. Before Wordsworth, poets like William Blake or Thomas Wyatt adhered more closely to the traditions of song and ballad, avoiding extensive descriptive elements. It is widely acknowledged that songs pre-date poetry—or rather, songs transformed into poems once they were transcribed and read privately.

The limitations of poetry that does not generalise are plain to see if we compare some lines from one with those of a song. First the poetry—a stanza from Frank O’Hara’s ‘Cambridge’:

It is still raining and the yellow-green cotton fruit

looks silly round a window giving out on winter trees

with only three drab leaves left. The hot plate works,

it is the sole heat on earth, and instant coffee. I

put on my warm corduroy pants, a heavy maroon sweater,

and wrap myself in my old maroon bathrobe.

What we see here is straightforward and descriptive writing that leaves little room for the reader’s imagination. In contrast, let’s examine song lyrics, specifically those of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. In Cohen’s ‘Night Comes On’, we find this verse:

I said mother I’m frightened,

the thunder and the lightening,

I’ll never get through this alone.

She said I’ll be with you,

my shawl wrapped around you,

my hand on your head when you go.

And the night came on,

it was very calm.

I wanted the night to go on and on

but she said go back,

go back to the world.

In contrast to O’Hara, Cohen embraces generalisation in his verse, opening up a wealth of interpretive possibilities. Right from the outset, ambiguity dominates as listeners are left pondering whether the speaker addresses his literal biological mother or if ‘mother’ serves as a metaphor for God or Mother Nature. Similarly, the thunder and lightning that instil fear are ambiguous—whether they are literal or symbolic remains uncertain. This ambiguity enriches each listener’s experience, allowing them to interpret the nature of the speaker’s fear differently.

Furthermore, this ambiguity invites numerous inquiries. When the speaker’s mother assures him of her presence wherever he goes, the listener is prompted to question: Where exactly is he headed? Is he venturing into the fearful scenario symbolised by thunder and lightning? Could this be an existential ordeal akin to the “dark night of the soul” as described by Christian contemplatives? Is the “night” in ‘the night came on’ also metaphorical, perhaps representing a sense of comfort and reassurance? If so, does the speaker desire this reassurance to persist? Likely so, yet there’s a suggestion to ‘go back to the world’. Who issues this advice—the maternal figure or the night itself, in whatever symbolic form it represents?

The fact that this verse provokes such inquiries underscores its transcendence over the earlier quoted stanza by O’Hara.

Similar ambiguities and the questions they prompt can be found in the following verse from Dylan’s ‘Changing of the Guards’:

Fortune calls.

I stepped forth from the shadows, to the marketplace,

Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down.

She’s smelling sweet like the meadows where she was born,

On midsummer’s eve, near the tower.

Similar to Cohen, Dylan embraces generalisation in his verse, blending various poetic registers to create a tapestry of language that both diversifies his expression and pays homage to his poetic lineage. He interweaves archaic phrases like ‘I stepped forth’, ‘smelling sweet like the meadows’ and ‘on midsummer’s eve’ with more colloquial language such as ‘last deal gone down’. This linguistic variety enriches the verse while acknowledging his poetic heritage.

The verse begins by declaring ‘fortune calls’, yet Dylan leaves it open-ended, leaving listeners to ponder: Is fortune beckoning the speaker, the audience or humanity at large? This ambiguity empowers the listener to interpret as they see fit. The introduction of a persona stepping forth from shadows adds another layer of intrigue—the identity of this persona remains ambiguous and unexplored, leaving ample room for interpretation. Even the term ‘shadows’, deliberately vague, invites myriad interpretations.

Moreover, Dylan employs phrases like ‘merchants and thieves’ and ‘hungry for power’ not only as specific symbols of corruption, decay and amorality but also as broader statements on the human condition. These phrases provoke further questions: Who is the woman ‘smelling sweet’ like the meadows? Why is “meadows” plural—does it symbolise something beyond its literal meaning? And what about the tower—does it hold symbolic significance as well?

In essence, Dylan’s verse, like Cohen’s, invites interpretation through its generalisations and poetic blending, making it a rich and layered piece that transcends simple description.

Similarly with Dylan’s song ‘The Wicked Messenger’, more questions are raised than answered:

There was a wicked messenger

from Eli he did come,

with a mind that multiplied

the smallest matter.

When questioned who had sent for him,

he answered with his thumb,

for his tongue it could not speak, but only flatter.

We note immediately the presence of ambiguity with the line: ‘from Eli he did come’. We are not told if Eli is a place or a person. The name has biblical connotations and can easily be a person. In the Old Testament Eli was the judge and high priest of Israel and although loyal to God, his reluctance to remove his two corrupt sons from the priesthood resulted in disgrace. Dylan’s lack of indication as to whom or what Eli is allows us to perhaps see a biblical reference in the name. If we take the name as referring to the biblical Eli then we have to ask the question: If the messenger was sent by Eli (who was a faithful servant of God) why is he seen as wicked? Is it because his mind ‘multiplied the smallest matter’ (possibly meaning he was neurotic) or that his ‘tongue it could not speak, but only flatter’ (possibly meaning he was a liar)? Are these common human failings sufficient grounds for someone to be designated as wicked? Alternatively, perhaps the messenger is wicked because there is a crudity about him—he ‘answered with his thumb’ (he gave the finger, perhaps?). For want of detailed information, we simply do not know.

So for me, each reader deserves the essential right to craft a personal meaning that encapsulates the essence of a poem. The poem itself serves primarily as a catalyst for this interpretive act. Embracing such an approach to poetry reading could potentially elevate poetry back to its rightful place as a significant and widely appreciated art form.