"Real" Poetry

In A Mathematician’s Apology (1967), G. H. Hardy broaches the concept of “realness”:

I often use the adjective ‘real’ and as we use it commonly in conversation. I have spoken of ‘real mathematics’ and ‘real mathematicians,’ as I have spoken of ‘real poets’ and ‘real poetry,’ and I shall continue to do so (p. 122). 

Hardy goes on to distinguish two connotations for “reality.” The first is physical reality—the “physical world, the world of day and night, earthquakes and eclipses, the world which physical science tries to describe” (p. 122). This is the world of you and I, where “we” meet, our feet on the pavement—the parts of “reality” we readily grasp with our five senses: taste, touch, sight, sound, and smell. There is also mathematical reality, the description of which, Hardy writes, varies amongst mathematicians and philosophers. His own take is that “mathematical reality lies outside us, that our function is to discover or observe it, and that the theorems which we prove, and which we describe grandiloquently as our ‘creations,’ are simply our notes of our observations” (pp. 123-124, original emphasis). 

In this essay, I mean to overlay Hardy’s frame/work onto Poetry. In doing this, first, let me be clear: I write with Cage’s notion that “a discussion is nothing more than an entertainment”[1]; the purpose of my writing is to propose for you a particular frame of mind. My pontification is but ponderation; and this discussion I attempt to engage is by nature incomplete, and thus by nature inadequate to fully cover the subject. Yet, I speak anyway (because it is in me to speak). The statement I present here, as this essay, is non-authoritative (insofar I do not have power over Poetry). As a poet, I have the poetical sense specific to me, and this is the perspective, the position, from which I empower myself to speak on the matter (rather than over it).

TWO KINDS OF POETRY.

There are, I am certain, at least two kinds of poetry, each of which belong to no one at all—each of which is every one’s, as no institution, school, class, ideology, etc., can own them. There is poetry and there is “real” poetry (or “real poetry”). The first, any one can write—it only takes intention. It may or may not have lineation. It may or may not “mean something” to someone. The second is more specialized. This one, too, any one can write—it takes only intention plus skill (which poets tend to refer to as “craft”). 

[intention + skill = real poetry]

The second poetry, real poetry, is apt for study. And here I do not wish to invoke academe at all. By “study” I mean that form of play that makes new knowing, knowing newness, possible [2]. I mean active exercise. We may say “real” poetry carries a particular weight, produces a weight of sorts—something to toy with, perform reps with. “Real” poetry is something we’re able to deal with, really—seriously, materially (as a piece of art—as an art piece). We’re able to not only take it seriously, but take it, seriously.

“A ‘serious’ theorem,” Hardy writes, “is a theorem which contains ‘significant’ ideas.” We know significance when we see it, he says, and, he notes, “this power of recognition requires a rather high degree of mathematical sophistication, and of that familiarity with mathematical ideas which comes only from many years spent in their company” (p. 103). Indeed, I, not unlike many others (you, perhaps), know a significant poem when I encounter it; I feel the significance—that potent, lively, energetic charge of symbol and sign—when I read it.

A theorem is a true mathematical statement: a conclusion reached through mathematical reasoning, based on observations and axioms (foundational rules that cannot be proven true but are accepted as truth, and on top of which mathematical systems are built). A theorem is a true statement: let’s liken a poem to a theorem.

[a serious poem = a serious theorem]

“True” as it relates to the poem is, of course, not predicated on fact versus fiction, not about whether the event really happened or whether the poet’s intention is “true.” “True,” where I am concerned, relates to the poem’s reasoning and whether that reason is sound. An adjective derived from the Old English gesund, “sound,” where I am concerned, is “having the organs and faculties complete and in perfect condition” [3]. And “perfect,” I think, is more interesting and more accurately understood in this instance as a verb: a serious poem is sound: its organs and faculties are complete and in perfected condition [4]. 

Hardy identities two hard-to-explain characteristics of a serious theorem: generality and depth.

GENERALITY. 

This is an “ambiguous and rather dangerous word” which we must not belabor, which we “must not allow to dominate our discussion” (p. 106). When a theorem is general it is capable of being extended “considerab[ly]” and is “typical of a whole class of theorems of its kind” (p. 104). All mathematical theorems are “equally and completely ‘general,’” Hardy asserts (p. 106, his emphasis). 

In order to stand as a serious theorem, the mathematic/poetic statement must be general. We refer now to the abstract. When something is general (“too general,” as practicing writers may get told in feedback on their work) it is abstract (“too abstract,” meaning the reader doesn’t quite know what to do with the words the practicing writer has provided—where to place them—how to interpret or understand the meaning the writing seems to be trying to make). Back to Hardy: 

…the [general] idea should be one, which is a constituent in many mathematical constructs, which is used in the proof of theorems of many different kinds. The theorem should be one which, even if stated originally (like Pythagora’s theorem) in a quite special form, is capable of considerable extension and is typical of a whole class of theorems of its kind (p. 104).

Without overcomplicating (belaboring) the general issue, a poem is general by way of subject. That is, by way of its attempt to bestow form onto an abstract idea: love, loss, joy, death, satisfaction, fear, belief, disappointment, hope… Concepts difficult to define in plain and straightforward ways. And thus the real poet, and their language, moves from literal to non-literal, and back again, and in between the in-between so that the poem can succeed in its quest (relay significance—meaning). Generally speaking, all poetry, both poems and real poems, are general in nature, as they deal with/in the abstract. Where the two categories most notably diverge is on the matter of depth.

DEPTH. 

I think now to C. S. Lewis’s two distinctions of literary realism [5]: (1) “realism of presentation,” “a realistic touch,” “the art of bringing something close to us, making it palpable and vivid, by sharply observed or sharply imagined detail” (p. 57) and (2) “realism of content,” “true to life,” such that “there is no disbelief to be suspended [on the reader’s behalf]” (p. 59). The depth criterion of a real-serious poem is at least two-fold: on one side is the issue of content and on the other is that of representation. 

Hardy: “[depth] has something to do with difficulty” (109, original emphasis): let’s lay our focus here: consider first difficulty of content. Trauma, for instance—suffering. Considering the poem’s content, it may have indeed been difficult for the poet to approach the page, get the words out, transmute the “negative” into a “positive,” into a selection of writing that indeed bears some significance to the one who wrote it. Confronting the page can indeed be a monumental task; it is important, I do believe, to, as a reader (and especially as an early reader—someone to whom the writer has entrusted their work for the purpose of in turn receiving critique), honor this. We owe it to the writer to acknowledge the hardness. Abuse, for instance, experiencing it, is hard to write about. Therefore, we consider difficulty of content, in poems where it is relevant, a given. We must give the writer due recognition. 

This first face of difficulty (content) centers on the writer, possibly even the reader, the reader’s personal experience. It is the second face of difficulty which survives the poet, which need not bank on the poet’s personal history to validate its significance. It is the second face of difficulty that takes it further—that transmutes—a second time—converting “hard to write” to “written hard,” so to speak. A real-serious poem illuminates, inside the poem, outside the poet, with/in the language, the depth/difficulty of representation. I use the term represent in appreciation: the poet has been given something—gifted, perhaps (depending on the content)—and it is from that gift that the poet constructs the poem and in that construction re-gifts—re-gives, perhaps (depending on the content)—the aspects they can of it to the reader. 

What the poet has been given is an experience. What the poet does is repackage (re-present) the core of the experience, as best they can or to the extent they so desire. As a real poet addresses the page, the real poet registers the reader on the other end of that page— not always in the initial drafting process but certainly during the revision process. A real poet fathoms there is a reader who comes to the page to undergo an experience. Thus, the poet uses their experience (skill) to communicate the heart of an experience (gift) to the perceptive reader who is capable and willing to experience (undergo) a good and meaningful reading experience [6]. The real poet constructs a sound structure, which is the real poem.

A SOUND POEM.

Here, we arrive again at the thought of play. A sound poem consists of language that has been played with, manipulated—arranged—directed. I think of a play: the page as a stage. I think of lighting (tone, mood, atmosphere, for instance), costumes (language dressed figuratively, for example). I think of syntax and sequence as choreography. A sound poem, I think of as a performance piece. 

Deliberate choices are made. And made again. The elements at work in the poem are ordered the way they have been with good reason. The effect of those choices have been weighed by the affect they’re able to make, such that aspects of the poet’s deliberation become embedded in the text as a kind of texture for the deliberate (perceptive) reader to notice, catch onto, and feel alongside.

A sound poem’s organs (its implements, literary tools and devices used in doing the work of the work) and faculties (the ability of the work to be significant on its own, outside the author—the power inherent to the work, present in the work, not the author) have borne perfection. In an earlier essay, I discussed poetry as “moving language.” Not only as language that moves the reader, which proceeds the making of the poem, but also as moving language around (“perfected,” “perfecting”), which precedes the reader’s engagement. Poetry as moving through language, by way of it. 

[intention + skill + perfection = sound poem]

Things, inside the poem, are in their proper place, their proper proportions (though, “appropriate” may be the more suitable adjective). It has to do with design: balance and variation, unity and harmony. It’s something for all poets to aspire to—new poets and old poets, famous poets and indie poets, poet poets and real poets. Perfection is not something you have but something to be had, again and again with each new poem, each new version of the same poem. It’s something the poet has to find every time; every poem comes to be perfected in its own way; each poem has its own sound. 

Must A POEM be “real” to matter?

The answer depends entirely on how we take the term. In everyday speech, we speak of “matter” as concern: “Does it matter?” we ask, meaning, “Should I care?” Poetry matters—real poetry and poetry, for that matter. My goal in crafting this essay is not to affirm a sense of hierarchy; it is to think along a clear delineation. (The delineation is clear). Line up poems with real poems, real poems with poems and the divergence is obvious. The significance of real poems are difficult to miss, especially in the company of poems (and I do not say “mere” poems, I say simply poems. It is not my goal to be pejorative. Plus, real poets don’t always write real poems—real poets sometimes write poems, too.) My attention drifts now to a Lia Purpura essay on form, where she notes the outlier is beautiful, too, in its own way, as “a form of interruption—like a gasp. A catch of breath…a rough hand passed over wool’s nap, snagging… a moment that catches your attention” [7]. A poem, proven so by real poems, has its use, its own beauty, too.

There are many who love poetry, prefer it to real poetry. And this for several reasons, I’m sure, all of which I won’t feign to understand. I imagine, though, that among the list of reasons is one of accessibility. It may be that poems are considered simpler to understand, easier to connect to, less “work” than real poetry. These poems, the ones I’ve read of them, tend to be large enough in scope for the reader to insert themselves, take on the voice of the speaker, supersede the speaker. These poems, like real poems, invite speculation. The introspective speculation, to a degree unlike real poems, tends largely toward assumption [8]. For the readers that prefer this type of poetry, the intention behind the poem, the passion behind the poet, is enough for the poem to matter.

“Passion,” Toni Morrison tells us, “is never enough.” Though, neither is skill, she adds. Still, we must try–push forward—move (our) language forward—be pointed, specific, in our language, purposeful in our meaning, refuse the “dead[ness]” of empty words, of meaning hollow enough for just anyone to claim its words, climb into the driver’s seat of the vehicle delivering those words. How we as writers “do language” is the “measure of our lives” [9]. It’s not enough that we do language (as both poets and real poets do). How we do language matters, too. And as the measure of our lives, it must matter more than anything (…yes?). 

Realness is a question of matter—of materiality. “Real poetry” knows that words matter—that they are the material with which we construct the moments that serve as artifacts of our material existence [10]. That it takes the best words we have access to, organized in the best time, to orchestrate the poem’s most appropriate rhythm and flow, construct a sound record. And it is that realness which bridges the two realities—the physical and the romanceful, external and internal—which allows access the third reality, related to Hardy’s “mathematical reality” in that it is one to be discovered—detected, located. And if intention and skill alone are not enough, there must be some other, third thing that actuates this poetical reality. (The third thing, I propose, is the poet’s unique process of perfecting coupled with the reader’s unique process of perceiving that perfection. Ultimately, I think, “realness” is about showing how your telling matters—that it matters—not by explanation, but through demonstration. It’s about using language to connect your dots with the dots of your reader and ending, together, with a string of pearls.) And in this poetical reality, the more than five senses make themselves accessible to the reader: thought sense, language sense, life sense, for example [11]. In this third reality are dimensions and realms of various degrees, to which the real poem provides a form of transport. And more than telling the reader about that place or even “taking the reader there,” the real poem shows the reader there—that there is a “there” to see [12]. Like a portal, but not one the reader steps through. One they view into. 

NOTES & SOURCES. 

1. John Cage, “Lecture on Nothing” (1959). 
2. In “The General Antagonism,” Moten introduces a metaphor: a toy-box as a toolbox. Toys, like tools, as props put into play, which can be used to move into “new thinking” and forming new relations. Stefano Harney and Fred Moten, The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning & Black Study (2013). Minor Compositions (Publisher). 
3. “Sound - Etymology, Origin and Meaning.” Etymonline, www.etymonline.com/word/sound.
4. I feel compelled to invoke the name of scholar-theorist bell hooks whenever I consider “perfect” in its verb form. It was her book All About Love which, when I read it years ago, expanded my limited understanding of the term from a state of being (end result) to a mode of operating.
5. C. S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism (1961). Cambridge University Press (Publisher). 
6. In “What Is a Reading Experience?: The Development of a Theoretical and Empirical Understanding,” Gitte Balling quotes one of his earlier studies which concluded a “good” reading experience is one where the reader gains new knowledge about themself and the world, is able to activate their imagination, and can “forget time and place,” among other factors (44). Balling goes on to write: “the reading experience is characterized both by the mood and the feelings that reading evokes in the reader while reading and by the knowledge or insight into human relationships or into other eras or cultures that stays with the reader after reading.” In addition, a “good” reading experience “something” to do with how the reader “experiences the [reading material] as an aesthetic and a literary object” (45). Plotting the Reading Experience: Theory/Practice/Politics, eds. Paulette M. Rothbauer, Kjell Ivar Skjerdingstad, Knut Oterholm, and Lynne E. F. McKechnie (2016). 
7. “On Form.” On Looking: Essays (2006). Sarabande Books (Publisher). 
8. The way I’ve come to understand the difference between assume and presume is that the latter takes into account some form of evidence; a presumption is not just a wild guess in the dark but an educated guess, some form of illumination in the room. An assumption is absent key forms of (textual) evidence—specific points of evidence. 
9. Toni Morrison. “Nobel Prize Lecture” (1993). https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1993/morrison/lecture/ 
10. Jenny Boulay’s craft essay “The Page as Poetry’s Artifact” proves relevant here. Poets on Teaching: A Resource Book, ed. Joshua Marie Wilkinson (2010). University of Iowa Press (Publisher). 
11. Rudolf Steiner. “Man’s Twelve Senses in Their Relation to Imagination, Inspiration, Intuition” (1981). Anthroposophical Review, Vol 3, Issue 2.
12. “Don’t tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief’s wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear’s caul,” Morrison bids in the aforementioned lecture. Poems tend to lean heavy on telling, on presenting, where real poems tend to work harder to showcase, demonstrate, re-present.