Real Poetry: An Antidote to Today’s Poetry

My father (1915–1996) left school at 14, barely literate or numerate and was more or less a manual laborer his whole life; he was never interested in education and never became educated. But I always remember this about him: When I was a teenager newly interested in poetry, I asked him, “Dad, why aren’t you interested in poetry?” It was a naïve question, but I wanted to know. The response I got shocked me then and still does today. While my father—God bless him!—was a massive exaggerator on any topic, he said, “I am interested in poetry.” Then he quoted both stanzas of James Stephens’s “The Snare” from memory. I was bowled over.
In his brilliant article, “Politics and the English Language,” George Orwell noted, “In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defence of the indefensible.” What’s argued here and elsewhere is that much of political discourse tries to justify actions that are morally questionable or outright wrong. It uses convoluted or deceptive language to mask the truth.
I would add that it’s not just convoluted language that obscures the truth; sometimes the mere repetition of simplistic and empty slogans can do this. The prototype for these reminds me of Orwell’s “Animal Farm” fable: “Four legs good, two legs bad.” It was a repeated until it worked up the crowd into an emotional frazzle about two-legged people.
Today, the two-legged people are the climate-change deniers, deniers of transgender women being real women, deniers of systemic racism, and so the list—the litany—goes on. These complex issues are reduced to variant slogans that people parrot.
The question is: What is the antidote to this corruption and perversion of language? Clearly, if this is a perversion of language, then it’s also of thought. As Orwell wrote in “1984”: “But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.”
While there’s no one simple answer, I do think the education systems in the United States and the UK need to embrace the teaching of poetry—real poetry.
There are exceptions to all this. In the works of some academic, postmodern ersatz poets, the diction tends to be arcane rather than cliched. The poem’s meaning is often impenetrable for the average reader. In sum, it tends to be extremely and uniquely solipsistic.
What real poetry can do and do supremely—better than any prose—is convey complex ideas and profound emotional states. It can express what is otherwise inexpressible. Almost as a contradiction, too, it can do this when using simple language.
The simplest poetry can set up inexhaustible resonances that readers return to again and again for their souls’ refreshment. Think of my father: Yes, the poem didn’t become life-changing for him as it did for me and so many others who read real poetry. But all his life, a small capsule of beauty held sway in his heart and mind so that he never forgot it.
A famous example of this is in Maxim Gorky’s “Memoirs of Lenin.” Lenin said: “I know nothing greater than [Beethoven’s] “Appassionata”; I’d like to listen to it every day. It is marvellous, superhuman music. I always think with pride—it may be naïve of me—what marvellous things human beings can do! But I can’t listen to music often, it affects my nerves, makes me want to say sweet nothings and stroke the heads of people who, living in such a hell, can create such beauty. Nowadays you have to thrash them on the heads, without mercy, to make them go to the revolution.”
In short, in order to be a mass murderer, Lenin had to forego—to suppress—the beauty of music, the music inside himself for it made him compassionate, but his political machinations required ruthless efficiency and cruelty. He had to suppress the poetry that is everywhere; for the universe means “uni” (one) and “verse” (song or poem).
On the other end of the spectrum, Abraham Lincoln found solace and emotional release in poetry, particularly during difficult times. One of his favorite poets was William Knox, whose melancholic poem “Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?” struck a deep chord in him. Lincoln frequently recited it to friends and family. In it, he found a poignant reflection on mortality and the fleeting nature of life. Those themes resonated especially in light of the Civil War and personal tragedies he endured. In short, poetry strengthened him.
With this in mind, we’ll look at one real poem to see how its specific qualities are an antidote to today’s corruption of language and thought. In Part 2 we’ll visit poet Robert Frost’s masterpiece “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”