One of the many challenging things that Michel Foucault said was that progress or innovation proceeds by means of catastrophic rupture rather than gradual change and I’ve been thinking about whether or not this applies to poetry and why some ruptures succeed whilst others fail.
There are two kinds of ruptures:
- those poems that represent a significant break with the accepted notion of what poetry is;
- those poems that are a significant move away from the poet’s previous work.
Many would argue that Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ is the most obvious rupture in both senses and the most successful in terms of lasting influence. It is possible to see this poem as significantly and radically different from anything before it but I’ve always been of the muddle-headed view that there is a gradual and reasonably logicial progression from ‘The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock’ through ‘Gerontion’ to the Ur-text itself. I’m not arguing that ‘The Waste Land’ wasn’t seen at the time as radically different from all that had gone before nor am I saying that it didn’t represent a significant break with the past but I don’t think that it came entirely out of the blue.
This is from ‘Prufrock’:
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin- (They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!') Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, know them all- Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons, I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?
There’s a voice within ‘Prufrock’ that is both playfully and intently ambitious, a voice that has a keen interest in how the universe might be disturbed. I think I can also make a case for this early poem with its juxtaposition of the demotic and profound as more modernist than its successor. I’ll also confess to considering everything after ‘Prufrock’ as a bit of a decline.
Eliot had intended to begin ‘The Waste Land’ with ‘Gerontion’ but was dissuaded from doing so by Ezra Pound. I think this might illustrate the point that I am trying to make:
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead; Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds. The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea, Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter. I an old man, A dull head among windy spaces. Signs are taken for wonders. 'We would see a sign!' The word within a word, unable to speak a word, Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year Came Christ the tiger.
Given Eliot’s original intentions, it isn’t altogether surprising that many elements of the Waste Land are presaged here, my point is that the rupture isn’t as suddenly as we might think.
By way of contrast, Geoffrey Hill’s ‘The Mercian Hymns’ was a complete break with what had gone before in his work and was completely out of step with the rest of English poetry of the time. The sequence is in prose and ostensibly concerns Offa, king of the Mercians, but does this by mixing the Anglo Saxon past with the 1971 present in a way that is incredibly accomplished and quite mysteriously evocative. Hill hasn’t published anything like it since and it doesn’t seem to have started any kind of trend. I was fourteen and busy reading ‘Crow’ in 1971 and completely missed this piece of brilliance until about 2005 but it still feels like a major break that should have had much greater effect.
The Prynne trajectory is much easier to trace. ‘Brass’ was also published in 1971 and contained this:
yet the immediate body of wealth is not history, body-fluid not dynastic. No poetic gabble will survive which fails to collide head-on with the unwitty circus no history running with the French horn running the alley-way, no manifest emergence of valued instinct, no growth of meaning & stated order:
Is a head-on collision with the unwitty circus also a rupture or is the essential thing about rupture that it renounces and/or ignores the circus? Does the recent publication of ‘Kazoo Dreamboats’ mark another significant rupture in Prynne’s work?
Geoffrey Hill isn’t after collisions but he also seems to hold his peers at arms-length, I can make a case for ‘The Triumph of Love’ as a sequence that breaks (ruptures) most of the rules and conventions yet still manages to be defiantly wonderful.
What Foucault didn’t mention was the stupidly high proportion of failed ruptures- those breaks with the past that are not followed by others but are nevertheless just as brilliant as those that succeed. Into this camp I’d place ‘Piers Plowman’, ‘Speke Parrot’ ‘Sordello’ and ‘The Anathemata. There are those that would argue that Langland’s reputation is actually secure and the poem continues to attract critical acclaim but my point is that it wasn’t followed through by others in the same way as Chaucer, Hoccleve and Lydgate. John Skelton was probably deeply dislikeable as a man but his work stands apart from what preceded it and ‘Speke Parrot’ would mark a rupture in any decade but hasn’t influenced anybody since. ‘Sordello’ was a critical and popular disaster but it does shine out as the most ambitious and genuinely innovative poem in the Browning oeuvre- Ezra Pound claimed that he was the only person on the planet who fully appreciated it.
I’ve written many times about the criminal neglect of David Jones’ ‘The Anathemata’ but the fact remains that it hasn’t been followed and is currently in danger of being forgotten altogether even though some of us regard it as one of the very best poems of the last hundred years. The reasons for this are many and various but pride of place has been given to difficulty and/or obscurity. I’m more inclined to the view that it presented a major challenge to Eliot-inspired modernism and failed to find an audience because it didn’t ‘fit’.
We know come to the rupturist par excellence- Paul Celan’s later work marks a chasm between our current notions of what poetry can do and Celan’s view of what it must do. Most serious poets now recognise Celan as the greatest 20th century poet but few have been brave enough, with the honourable exception of Edmond Jabes to follow in his wake. It is impossible to overstate the violence of this particular rupture which began to tear its way to the surface in the late fifties and continued to Celan’s death in 1970. Suffice it to say that it’s body of work that rips apart all the usual notions of meaning and addresses language as a matter of survival and thinks of the poem carrying the quite desperate potential for an encounter in this struggle for life.
Both Prynne and Celan work at the extremes of ambiguity and allusion, both are rejected for their elitism and obscurity just as both are criticised for writing unpoetry. I’m still of the view that these are the names, above all others that we’ll remember in 200 years’ time.
I didn’t read very far, but is this the same idea as punctuated equilibrium?
Not really, think rather of the cultural/scientific impact of Newton, Darwin, Freud although I think Foucault may have had Linnaeus in mind (typically). In poetry the obvious candidates might be Holderlin and Baudelaire.
you might observe that we all have to eat — but such concerns do not belong in the manly poem. The manly poem may sit at a desk of managed forest or cheap laminate, brew unsourced coffee, stare out perceptively at a pedestrian crossing, a rank of bins, a potted plant the manly poem has — presumably — a navel, with its fascinator of blue fluff, but on these things both muse and man must be silent. For the manly poem is a crystal of pure thought, with no bodily needs, apart from sex, of course — the consequences of which may occasionally be permitted to enter provided they wash their hands. Alas, there is no soap or running water in the manly poem and the children are hungry or sulky or tired — For the manly poem, despite its umbilical scar, arrived fully formed, punctuated with profound utterances, a tendency to syllable count and complex forms; also politics, apocalypses, great themes. The manly poem has a purpose, the manly poem must Lead The Way — but with such rules, taboos, and no breakfast, the Inner Critic — vestigial, but still lurking — convulses and dies, not literally, you understand, with a lingering quotation, but in the usual mess of grief and bodily fluids which have to be dealt with, of course, in another kind of poem.
Poetic rupture. Of course! You just may have saved my thesis from the quicksand of nonsense. Thank you.
(It will be an honor to cite you – this really was very helpful; even if, like Pound – and with all due respect to its author – I am the only person on the planet to fully appreciate what was articulated in this excellent essay).
Yes, that would be an honour, I’m pleased that you found it useful.