Skidding on the banana peel of literary judgment

Goodreads is driving me banana. (After misspeaking recently, I decided “going banana” sounds significantly crazier than the plural.) I resolved to keep better track of what I read, both out of curiosity and because my memory is really not sharp enough for those year-in-review pieces I get asked to write. (Alternately, somebody suggested LibraryThing, but I’d had a brief flirtation with Goodreads before, so I decided to have one more go at a familiar system.) But in logging books, you rate them, and I have a feeling I’m doing this ALL WRONG. That is, I’m saving five stars for the books that move or dazzle me memorably, the books I’ll keep coming back to. That criterion is idiosyncratic: the Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson would be a no-brainer for many, but When the Water Came by Cynthia Hogue and Rebecca Ross is also up in that stratosphere for me, both because those interview-poems are so affecting and because reading them launched a new interest in documentary poetics. The latter changed the direction of my thinking; I understand it might not change yours. In the meantime, I’m giving Mary Szybist’s National Book Award-winning Incarnadine four stars, because it’s merely a really, really good collection. Some of the poems are amazing, but like all collections of disparate works, the book’s a little uneven (so is Dickinson, to be fair). I see why those smart judges admired Incarnadine, that is, but it did not shake my world. The banana segment of this personally reasonable reaction is that nobody knows my weird criteria, so in rating books this way I’m liable to offend a lot of author-acquaintances. Besides, poetry needs all the boosterism it can get, right? Even if you say, no, it needs critical judgment in this age of grade inflation, what good does one tiny star-clicker do in the scheme of things, anyway, with her fine discriminations?

I find myself considering questions of evaluation in the classroom, too, and not just in grading undergraduate essays (once I could have written an angsty post about grading, but after a few thousand tries I find myself pretty relaxed about it). “What’s good about this?” is a typical question in creative writing workshops, but in literature classes we more often ask “how does this work?” or “what kind of poem is this?” or “how does this fit in a chain of influence/ reaction?” Certain kinds of literature classes do invite literary judgment, especially courses that stretch or challenge the canon in some way. And we make those private pronouncements all the time: this famous author is amazing; that one does not float my banana boat. Still, when a grumpy student complains about some text on the syllabus, I’m likely to reply that we’ll have a better conversation if we start with the assumption it’s worth reading. “What’s interesting about this?” is usually a more productive prompt than “Is this any good?” It’s rooted in a better stance towards the universe. Snarkiness has its own dark delights, but aren’t curious, open-minded, open-hearted people just more fun? Don’t you know someone whose eternal enthusiasm, whose assumption that everything and everyone is fascinating, make him or her a delight to spend time with?

Yet I found myself having a little temper-tantrum last Friday. I’m teaching Twenty-First Century Poetry, focusing the readings on lost, damaged, or imaginary places. For the first few weeks, I’m revisiting a unit I did once before on poetry after Hurricane Katrina (I blogged a bit about it two years ago). We began with When the Water Came, some clips from Spike Lee’s amazing documentary When the Levees Broke, and readings about documentary poetics. Then, before moving onto some related poems I admire by Nicole Cooley and Patricia Smith, I taught the controversy about Raymond McDaniel’s prize-winning book Saltwater Empire. An essay by Abe Louise Young and a rather indirect retort by McDaniel give more information, but in brief, McDaniel built a series of collage poems out of survivor testimonies from the Alive in Truth web site (which has been taken down since). He did not seek permission to quote the materials, as the site directed him to do, but he did put a tiny little acknowledgement on the copyright page (not in the Notes section, weirdly). My class read just part of the series, collectively titled “Convention Centers of the New World,” and compared it to another poem from the same book, “This Is a Recording,” which does sample a Bo Diddley song but seems to represent something more like a personal experience of listening to music in some lonely southern darkness.

We had lively conversations about ethics versus aesthetics: of course writers are always transforming other sources, but is there a bright line somewhere designating kinds of appropriation that are just wrong? The college I teach at has a strong honor system, so not surprisingly, some students argued that McDaniel’s poems simply constitute plagiarism. Others found them beautiful and powerful, and suggested the quality of the art could mitigate his failure to seek the appropriate permission.

Truly, strong differences of opinion are great in a classroom, and I’m glad to have made space for them. And I see why people find McDaniel’s poems beautiful and powerful. Yet even if it were possible to put aside the ethical problems, McDaniel’s poststructuralist justifications drive me banana. Yes, yes, we and our voices are fragmented and multiple, but this is an academic piety I’ve grown up with and I’m bored of it. Poetry is an art of implication, of mysterious and not-quite-tameable resonance, and yet I’m no fan of the fashionable jumpy, extremely anti-narrative mode (well, except for the very very best stuff). It strikes me as lazy.  I want to shout: “Do the work! Make the connections, or at least give me enough hints that I can do it! Know what your own damn poem is ABOUT!” And, um, I kind of did in class, although I wasn’t very shouty.

So there I was, potentially closing down interesting dissent with my own strong internal rating system, and only two weeks into the term, no less. It seemed unwise to me, but I feel so fiercely about the whole business–I take poetry personally, and I think others should, too. The lone banana, split. It’s a fabulous group of students, though, so I suspect they’ll bounce back with their own fierce age-of-Google opinions and puree me.

Poetry resolutions with a side of black-eyed peas

Every New Year’s Day, after the hoppin’ john, my family of four pulls out a box that gets packed away annually with the Christmas ornaments. It contains lists we’ve been keeping since before our kids, now 13 and 16, could write. We reread them, laughing or chagrined or occasionally pleased, before drafting a new list for the following year. Some highlights in various hands: “Get better at drawing robots.” “Be good so I get a hamster.” “Unlock every single guy on Super Smash Bros.” “Schmooze at AWP.” “Remind whole family to floss regularly.” “Floss no more than 20 times in next 2 years.” “Don’t let Mom make me floss.”

I’m always appalled by how my yearly vows to eat less and exercise more don’t do a lick of good. I should take a lesson from my most successful resolution ever, which was doable and specific: if there are four flights or fewer and I’m not carrying something very heavy, I take the stairs (conserving fossil fuels, spending my own stockpile). A series of resolutions did make my diet healthier—higher in veggies, limited in fats and sugars—plus, having discovered dairy and corn allergies several years ago, I can’t eat most processed foods. Still, like many middle-aged people, I grow a little jollier-looking ever year. Remember when you were twenty, and all you had to do was swear off midnight cheeseburgers and the pounds just melted away?

We’ll see what I write on that slip of paper tonight about diet, exercise, and drawing robots. Here, in the meantime, are my literary resolutions for 2014.

1. Maintain a list of every book I read so when I get those end-of-year “Best of 2014” requests, I can remember favorites from before October.

2. Read at least some of every poetry volume that gets shortlisted for the major post-publication prizes, THAT YEAR, instead of discovering five years later, “oh, that really WAS good!” I’ve asked my library to order them, which should help.

3. Persist in seeking publication for poems and essays, and especially for the new poetry ms, Radioland, despite clerical tedium, existential crises, etc.

4. Draft the middle third of Taking Poetry Personally, or Poetry’s Possible Worlds (title in flux)—this critical-memoirish thing I’m writing, and which I just reread the first third of, and which I immodestly think is kind of exciting.

5. Apply for an NEA, because what the hell.

6. Revise ruthlessly and decisively.

7. Remember my priorities. It’s good to help other people and hard to say no, but I need to be better about directing my not-unlimited energy at the projects that seem most urgent. I have a plan, as far as writing is susceptible to plans anyway, but I’m constantly letting it get sidelined.

As I drafted this I saw a similar post from January Gill O’Neill and liked her list better than mine. “Have a vision” is basically like “Remember my priorities,” but I need some version of her “Ditch what’s not working.” That’s hard for me, letting hours or days or weeks of work result in nothing, even harder than the submission-rejection wheel of pain.[1] Easier, though, than flossing.

 

[1] Unintended pun. I’m Wheeler, and I work in Payne Hall. Hmm.