POETRY OR NOT?

POETRY OR NOT

This posting first appeared early last year and, to tell the truth, I don't think it got the attention from my readers that it deserved. I've revised it very slightly and I'm running it again now. If you read nothing else then look at the final 'poem' by the little known poet, Rocky Graziano.



I’ve heard so many people – dull and boring people – make the same old criticisms of poetry today. ‘Rubbish’. ‘That’s not poetry’. ‘A child could do it’. You know what I’m saying. My problem is that sometimes I find myself agreeing with those people and if I were to say so out loud I’d be putting myself into their camp and I don’t want to be there so I don’t say so. But I have some thoughts along those lines. Here’s a good example of what set me thinking. It is most definitely not rubbish. It is most definitely good. I loved it when I read it in the The Spectator March 27 last year but I have to ask, ‘Is it a poem?’

I hope Wendy Cope does not object to my reproducing the work in full. I undertake to remove it from this blog if she thinks I am abusing her copyright. In my darker moments I admit that no-one’s reading this anyway so what does it matter? To continue. Read this:

UNCLE BILL


Mummy’s working class relations
Didn’t get invited to dinner or tea
But Uncle Bill dropped in
From time to time, to see Nanna
Because she was his sister.
‘Hello Uncle Bill.’ We’d say
As he passed through the hall
On his way to the kitchen
Or Nanna’s room.


He didn’t stay long. When he left
We said goodbye. And that
Was all we ever saw of Uncle Bill.
Except that sometimes we’d be on a
Bus –
You got on at the back
And didn’t see the driver –
And even though we’d pinged to get off,
It went on past our stop
Until it reached our house.
We jumped off, my sister and I,
And ran along to the driver’s cab.
‘Uncle Bill! Uncle Bill!’
He waved back and drove away.


Wendy Cope

The only rule that could be said to define this as a poem is the one that says, ‘if Wendy Cope says it’s a poem then that’s what it is’. Of course she isn’t explicitly saying that it is but by setting it out as though it were a poem she’s making an implicit claim for it to be seen as such. And The Spectator by setting it out as it did, as it does with other pieces that are poemy or are unquestionably poems, reinforces its status as a poem.

Looking for any kind of rhythmic structure, any pattern involving metre or emphasis, any rhyme, even the number of lines in the two stanzas, I see nothing poemy in this.

The big BUT is that it has a strong poetic quality and is a delightful piece. I love it. Thank you Wendy Cope.

Perhaps we need another form of writing that is halfway between poetry and prose. A piece of writing that doesn’t bother with irrelevant breaks between lines and the pauses that are implicit in them, that doesn’t make you expect anything more than a good idea that is so well expressed that the effect is to make the reader respond intellectually, emotionally – I don’t care as long as there is a response. Does Wendy Cope’s piece lose anything if it is written so? ...

UNCLE BILL

Mummy’s working class relations didn’t get invited to dinner or tea but Uncle Bill dropped in from time to time to see Nanna because she was his sister. ‘Hello Uncle Bill’, we’d say as he passed through the hall on his way to the kitchen or Nanna’s room. He didn’t stay long. When he left we said goodbye. And that was all we ever saw of Uncle Bill except that sometimes we’d be on a Bus – you got on at the back and didn’t see the driver – and even though we’d pinged to get off, it went on past our stop until it reached our house. We jumped off, my sister and I, and ran along to the driver’s cab. ‘Uncle Bill! Uncle Bill!’ He waved back and drove away.

Wendy Cope

Is anything lost? Anything gained? For me it is No to both questions.

Coincidentally, in that same edition of the magazine there was a review of a couple of books about Paul Newman. The reviewer Lewis Jones starts by quoting from Rocky Graziano’s memoir Somebody Down Here Likes Me Too when he describes the great man.

I could see right off there ain’t one thing phony about this guy. Maybe there was. He was too good-looking. In fact , the guy is pretty … He’s got bright blue eyes, but when you look in ‘em you see a hard look dancing around inside. Only one other guy I see these same eyes on an’ that was another friend of mine, Frank Sinatra. When their blue eyes spot a wise guy, the eyes says, ‘Don’t fuck with me, man!’

Let’s see how it works if we treat it as a poem.


PAUL NEWMAN


I could see right off
there ain’t one thing phony about this guy.
Maybe there was.
He was too good-looking.
In fact , the guy is pretty …
He’s got bright blue eyes,
But when you look in ‘em you see a hard look dancing around inside.
Only one other guy I see these same eyes on
An’ that was another friend of mine,
Frank Sinatra.
When their blue eyes spot a wise guy,
The eyes says,
‘Don’t fuck with me, man!’


Rocky Graziano

See what I mean?