On Poetry, Spirituality and Personal Growth

Three shoppers stand beneath a neon sign saying, “Ye Olde Healthe Foode Shoppe”

“I believe in spirituality,” says the first. “Not the shopworn, trite spirituality of traditional religion, but a deeply personal spirituality.”

“I believe in poetry,” says the second. “Not poetry that rhymes, of course, but avant-guarde language poet – the poetry of the soul.”

“I believe in personal growth,” says the third. “Not anything specific or rigorous, but I believe that I have infinite potential.”

These three shoppers believe in the future. That is, they believe in something that doesn’t exist.

The past existed. It really happened. That’s the problem with it. Our language poet knows he can’t write sonnets as well as Shakespeare, or odes as well as Keats, or epics as well as Homer. Who can? It’s too hard. So he persuades himself that the kind of poetry he can write is the wave of the future.

Our personal spirituality lover knows he can’t give up everything he owns and become a saint, like Francis of Assisi. He knows he can’t meditate for months on end like a Buddhist monk. So he persuades himself that the spirituality he can practice is the wave of the future.

Our personal growth advocate knows he can’t undergo a personal epiphany, like Augustine. He lacks the discipline and direction. So he persuades himself that the personal growth of which he is capable is the wave of the future.

There is something both cowardly and noble about our three heroes. It is cowardly to reject the past because it is threatening. The giants of the past are not only the windmills against which we tilt, but also the chargers we ride to the joust. It is sane to be in awe of giants, but cowardly to fear them. The hero, like Ozymandias of old, cries, “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”

Of course if our works are puny and pitiful (as they always are), it’s hard to work up much volume or enthusiasm on the Ozymandian shout. Most of our own works make us despair, not other people.

That is why the language poet and the seeker of spirituality and the personal growth buff are noble. Their works may be desperate bunk, but their hearts are in the right place. They may not be able to write poetry, or know God, or grow, but they have the souls of poets, the hearts of saints and the ambition of geniuses.

Of course every mailman, every factory worker, and (yes) every vitamin salesman has the soul of a poet. For, even more important, each of us has the soul of a human being. What we don’t have is the ability to write poetry.

Every clerk, every waiter, and (even) every U.S. Senator has the spirituality of a priest or shaman. For, more important, each of us has the spirituality of a human being. What we don’t have is the ability to talk to God, or see the future, or telepathically bend silverware. We have all “heard the mermaids singing, each to each,” but most of us are unable to understand the words, or remember the tune.

The world is a strange place. We all delude ourselves. We all believe many things which simply aren’t true. But one thing is true: we can see the wave of the future only by looking into the past. As with the waves of the sea, or the winds of the air, we know what’s coming only by knowing what has come. “There is nothing new under the sun…. All rivers floweth into the sea, and yet the sea is not full, for unto that place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.” So it is for the sea; so it is for the human soul.

Nice post. What you say about poets fearing the past, reacting against it, and creating something new is something that's been addressed a lot in Modernism. TS Eliot may have kicked things off with Tradition and the Individual Talent. Harold Bloom expanded that into a whole theory (of sorts) about how poets (re)act to in The Anxiety of Influence (and, more recently, in The Anatomy of Influence). What's interesting about the discussion is that, the way I see it, modern (meaning contemporary) poetry is always made up of what past influences poets accept and reject. I don't know if great new poetry can be made either by blanket rejection or acceptance. Both actions are need to define our writing. Eliot may have argued that tradition acted as a means of mixing chemicals to create something new, he didn't really address the importance of what of the tradition he rejected, perhaps being unconscious of this. EG, Eliot essentially exalted (almost single-handedly lead to the rediscovery of) late-16th-17th century metaphysical poetry (Donne, Herbert, et al), while he derided much of romanticism and, especially, the Victorians. It lead to him identifying depersonalization as a key aspect of poetry, and this lead to a poetry that was both startlingly modern in how it rejected romantic traditions, yet steeped in the tradition of older/other poetry. That's what gives, eg, The Waste Land that bizarre juxtaposition of alienness and familiarity.

I'm not an expert on Eliot's criticism (although I like his poetry). Speaking of modern poetry, however, I read this online course (available for free) a couple of years ago: http://oyc.yale.edu/english/engl-310

It served to give me an overview of modern poetry I previously lacked. I recommend it (or at least dabbling in it) to anyone interested (or, at least, any relative neophyte interested). Apparently, you can watch the lectures, but I didn't do that: I read (most of) them and read (most of) the assigned poetry.

wow! good read ecurb. I felt miniscule and noble all at the same time!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ecurb

I'm not an expert on Eliot's criticism (although I like his poetry).

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He wasn't any more prolific in his criticism than in his poetry, but he was probably equally influential in both. Much of it can be found online for free. Here was the essay I was referring to.

What a smart, observant, well-written post!

I don't know about you, but whenever I see some air-head actress on the tube announce,"I'm not religious, but I am deeply spiritual," I want to bop her in the chops. "Spiritual?" What the hell does that mean, that she has a soul? Where did she think she got this spirituality--from a trendy little shop on Rodeo Drive? My impression is some people do not want to admit the actual existence of God, while at the same time leaving some wiggle room just in case they're wrong. It's like Pascal's wager with even less sincerity, branding such a person as a wishy-washy follower rather than a leader. "Cowards," as Ecurb describes them, is right.

When it comes to writing poetry, the undeniable greatness of the past is both haunting and daunting (rhyme not really intended.) As T.S. Eliot states in "Tradition and the Individual Talent," the poet has to be aware of every work and every poet who has come before him, and while it may not be possible to replicate the great literature of past centuries, the poet is charged with coming up with something which not only follows the evolution of that noble tradition but paradoxically presents something new, "personal" in only a technical way, but more importantly universal and enduring, thus continuing the tradition.

Obviously the farther away we get from the past, the harder such a thing is to achieve. (One only has to visit an English department to witness the difficulty of Ph.D candidates coming up with a dissertation topic that hasn't already been done, hence the proliferation of Derrida-style "deconstruction.')

Harold Bloom's thesis The Anxiety of Influence maintains that past greatness puts the would-be poet at such a disadvantage that he (or she) is psychologically paralyzed, the shadow of the literary giants who have come before us blocking out the light of present creativity. Still, the poet has the pressing need --perhaps an obligation-- of trying to write in spite of everything. It's not a question of "rejecting" the past or even trying to surpass the greatness of a Shakespeare or a Milton, but taking the risk anyway.

As far as the 1970's me-decade folks who are working toward some kind of "personal fulfillment" that might radiate through them at some nebulous part of the future-- this again is a "cop-out" (another 70s term.) But maybe it serves as some kind of excuse for the languor of his present life-style, i.e. why he doesn't seem to have a job.

Thanks, everyone. I actually wrote the OP as a newspaper column in a health newsletter I write for my company. It's distributed for free in Health Food Stores. Most of the articles in the newsletter are educational puff pieces detailing the fabulous (whoops! I mean "scientifically proven") health benefits of the products my company makes -- but I always write a column and some general interest news stories hoping to get people to read the darned thing. This explains the setting ("Ye Olde Healthe Foode Shoppe") -- although (perhaps) I should avoid making fun of my own customers, tempting though it may be. If it is "well written" (thanks again) it's because I worked on it more diligently (probably) than I would have on a mere post for Literary Forums.