• Poetry Snark
  • Wednesday, July 06, 2005

    The Infinite Regress of the Critic

    Ah friends, yes, yes, it seems the morning is veritably dehiscing with beauty like an orange over-ripe with its acrid juices, yes, yes, like a sow on the verge of birthing friends, only, the sky seems wont to birth merely sunshine, a few cirrus clouds, & a breeze that lightly intermingles with the steam from my white jasmine pear tea like the fingers of hesitant & inchoate lovers. & the smell of fish from the bay, friends, that briny stench of hubris foregone, yes, a lovely tale it tells but for the anosmics, bless them all (for what blessing in the olfactory system!). This morning I choose crticisism of criticism, friends, as an in to my endeavoring, as a means of implicating myself in the struggle. As you may well know, my studies are numerous, my works comprehensive, my critical acumen unchallenged, & yet, there seems a fundamental flaw in the trends of the modern critic. What has been referred to as "editor's syndrome" seems to flush over the profession like a black tunic over a visigoth, yes, only more sardonic in its composition; namely because a tunic, to the extent of my knowledge, is incapable of being sardonic (though the two words may well flush out a sestina one day). At any rate, friends, the critical eye turns with malice & indignation to works which represent easy targets, flawed projects, or unrepentently idiotic explosions of ego smeared across a page, as I'm sure we all have seen. Now, indeed, friends, there is relative ease in tightening one's aperture & zeroing in on incompetence as an entymologist might upon a rare specimen of grasshopper. which is to say, by making that specimen as remote, as distant & as far from yourself as possible. But recognize, friends, the unity, the conectivity of all things, & suddenly, the scientist becomes the study. Just so, the critic must always remain the criticized, lest accountablity & savage politics intervene where scholastic integrity once lived. Here, I say that yes, I may indeed find my reaction to Fence so visceral as to lead me to bang my head against a wall repeatedly, yes, but friends, I must also effect the changes I wish the poems read effected. Namely, if the ego, if the horrid indolence, the lazy gesture, the pomposity, the trite nod to G. Stein, the insistence on surreal manufacturing irritates me, friends, I must redouble my vision & scan my reaction for the presence of that which set it off. Namely, my indignation at horrid verse offends my ego, which, in turn, posits me on the cusp of verbal condescension, where, of a sudden, I am guilty of the very crime I condemn. Thus the critic must remain in the liminal space betwixt two mirrors, friends, the words bouncing back & forth, the vitriol, the praise, the flat assessments, all of it locked up in the chamber of our being. The speaking of a criticism, the expurgation from the physical body, means very little, though much has been said in praise of its cathartic quality. Our words carry the stench of ourselves, friends, & thus, while there be exceptions to every rule, namely in the form of the obstinately if not at all reasonably persistent school of idiocy that governs our modern discourse, perhaps we should consider the weight of our criticisms in the light of their reflections & refractions. What are we saying of ourselves? Well, well, I digress where I mean to regress. On to the champagne!

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