Monday, April 16, 2007

Poetry

Marianne Moore (1967)

I, too, dislike it.
     Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
     it, after all, a place for the genuine.



1 comment:

  1. her 1935 predecessor:

    Poetry

    I, too, dislike it: there are things that are more important beyond all this fiddle.
        Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
        it after all, a place for the genuine.
            Hands that can grasp, eyes
            that can dilate, hair that can rise
                if it must, these things are important not because a

    high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
        useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
        the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
            do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat
                holding itself upside down or in quest of something to

    eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
        a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-
        ball fan, the statistician—
            nor is it valid
                to discriminate against 'business documents and

    school-books': all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
        however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry.
        nor till the poets among us can be
          'literalists of
            the imagination'—above
                insolence and triviality and can present

    for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall we have
        it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
        the raw material of poetry in
            all its rawness and
            that which is on the other hand
                genuine, you are interested in poetry.

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