Richard Bradford
Continuum Literary Studies
Continuum International Publishing Group
The Tower Building 80 Maiden Lane
11 York Road Suite 704
London SE1 7NX New York NY 10038
www.continuumbooks.com
Acknowledgements viii
Introduction 1
1. The Double Pattern 3
2. Silent Poetics 16
3. Critical Antipathy 35
4. The Poet in the Poem 51
5. Modernism: Two Versions of Free Verse 73
6. Poems as Pictures 97
7. The Sliding Scale 117
8. The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 141
9. Conclusion 194
Notes 203
Select Bibliography 205
Index 211
Acknowledgements
the silent configurations of the text; the spoken performance could not
always accommodate a counter-pattern of unspoken juxtapositions. The
unrhymed pentameter did not turn words into things, but it allowed the
poet to create relations between the words on the page that depend as much
upon their spatial position as upon their placing within the temporal chain.
With the arrival of free verse, accentual pattern and syllabism, the remain-
ing concessions to regularity, were discarded. The line became something
that evaded abstract definition; it was neither a syntactic unit nor a measure
of metrical regularity. Its use as an axis between what we hear and what
we see is in my opinion the most fruitful and innovative consequence of
the free-verse revolution – but it would be a decade after the birth of the
new form before William Carlos Williams and e. e. cummings shook them-
selves free of the restrictive, phonocentric conventions of the first gener-
ation. Since then the use of the line as a phenomenon that shifts the reader
between the temporality of sound and the silent juxtapositions of shape
has occurred in the poetry of T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, Charles Tomlinson,
Geoffrey Hill, Philip Larkin . . . none of whom we would easily associate with
concretism. Their use of visual form is something to which the reader has
been denied access, because although we can experience it we have no crit-
ical or interpretive code to account for our experience. In Chapters 7 and 8
of this book I shall attempt to provide such a framework through the use of
what I call the sliding scale. This is not an explanation of how visual form
works – our own appreciative faculties should become attuned to this from
the examples used – but rather a means of distinguishing between three
types of poem: the purely graphic text such as the concrete poem from
which speech and the univocal pattern are largely excluded; regular verse
in which no essential tension exists between what we see on the page and
what we hear; and the type of poetic effect which is the principal subject of
this book, in which spoken pattern and spatial juxtaposition engage separ-
ately with the cognitive faculties of ear and eye and create two levels of sig-
nification within the same text. The effects of such a form are complex and
varied but, as will be seen, the innovative keynote is its success in blending
the ‘it’ that stands outside the poem, the ideational mental image created
by the words, with the ‘it’ of the poem itself where patterns of signification
are, like the components of a painting, inscribed within the materiality of
the text.
Chapter 1
Some Preliminaries
Consider the following task. Choose a poem and then describe the form
in which it is written. Most people with an interest in literature will be able
to identify The Rape of the Lock as a sequence of heroic couplets, Paradise
Lost as blank verse and Shakespeare’s sonnets as, indeed, sonnets. Even at
the irregular end of the formal scale, the Romantic ode, Hopkins’s sprung
rhythm or the ac-centualist experiment of ‘Christabel’ will make conces-
sions to some kind of identifiable pattern of syntax, rhythm, alliteration
or rhyme scheme, which, in the clinical world of analysis, will stand out-
side what the words actually mean. Such poems invoke an abstract formal
code. Before and after reading a sonnet or a couplet poem we have in
mind an abstract formula of metre, syntax and rhyme into which the poet
fits his words, and it is this condition of secondary awareness that allows
us to chart degrees of variation, and which in the end plays an important
role in our judgement of how good or bad a poem is. But with Williams’s
‘The Red Wheelbarrow’, Pound’s ‘In a Station of the Metro’ or Eliot’s ‘Ash
Wednesday’ we can agree to designate all three as free-verse poems only
because they persistently evade the abstract patterns of regular verse. We
know what they are because of what they are not. It might be possible to
draw up a diagram of stress patterns and line lengths, but this would not
represent a formula for free verse, only a plan of the particular free-verse
poem that we happen to be reading.
The closest we can come to identifying an abstract structure for free
verse is to state that it is written in lines, and here we come upon the source
of a controversy which has lasted for the best part of a century. How can a
poetic line be a poetic line if it does not satisfy some abstract formal crite-
rion? The lyrics of the early Imagist collections simultaneously provoked
and disrupted the expectations of the reader. They looked like poems and,
to the extent that the units into which they were divided were determined
4 Graphic Poetics
neither by syntax nor by the conventions of the typesetter, they were clearly
not intended to be read as prose. But these units could vary between one
and fi fteen syllables, and the extent of the variation could not be fitted into
an abstract conception of rhythm or sound pattern which contained any
kind of progressive order. The lines were there but the reader had no way
of stating how these mysterious phenomena differed from one another or
from any other method of linguistic composition.
This case of free verse offering itself as poetry yet deliberately failing
to satisfy the traditional expectation of pattern and event, is what per-
plexed and irritated the more sceptical commentators on the early col-
lections. The complaint that emerges consistently in the writing of the
anti-free verse campaigners focuses upon what I shall call the double
pattern. A brief definition is required: in all forms of linguistic compo-
sition some kind of pattern emerges. At its most basic it is the pattern of
comprehensibility, a function of grammar, syntax, the interlocking of the
syntagmatic and paradigmatic chains. We understand and create linguis-
tic statements because we know that some words should and some words
should not follow one another in order to create intelligible meaning. In
modern linguistic terms, the basic pattern of language is a consequence
of its deep structure, the abstract framework of conventions through
which we are able to create specific and complex meanings from individ-
ual integers, words. Occasionally, and often by accident, this referential,
syntactic pattern of discourse will create surface patterns of rhythm and
sound which draw upon the materiality of language and which do not
relate directly to its signifying function. The double pattern, which the
early anti-free verse critics cited as the definitive characteristic of poetry,
occurs when this secondary, surface pattern is regular and persistent.
These critics did not dispute the fact that rhythmic sequences are dis-
cernible in non-poetic language – all linguistic constructions contain a
successive variation in stress and accent. But they argued that for the
poetic line to become a verifiable phenomenon it must be possible to dis-
cern a pattern which is anterior to what can be regarded as the accidents
of speech or prose rhythm. This pattern is not necessarily a natural result
of the referential function of language, nor should it impose too much
constraint upon what the poet wishes to say, but it must be separate. Thus
the identification of a double pattern enables us to describe the abstract
formula of traditional verse.
The apologists for free verse, who also tended to be its practitioners, were
united in the belief that what the new form was trying to free itself from
was the incessant, repetitive presence of this double pattern. The abstract
The Double Pattern 5
Whiŕ l up / séa – /
Whiŕ l / your pointed pińes /
Splásh / your great pińes / on our roćks /
Huŕ l / your greén over us /
CÓver us / with your poÓls / of fiŕ /
Patterson and Lowell noted that the chief accent of 13/10 of a second
occurs five times, but both agreed – the latter with some reluctance – that
this could hardly constitute a pattern. The problem raised by the Patterson-
Lowell experiment is of how to match a new aesthetic phenomenon with
codes of interpretation that are designed to deal with its predecessor. They
tried to make ‘Oread’ fit into a liberally refashioned model of the double
pattern, but as Patterson was to observe, this placed the ‘poem’ in the cat-
egory of ‘ “spaced prose” in which the balancing of broader groupings in
prose rhythm is accentuated by printing the phrases on separate lines’.
Both insist that the look of the poem is only significant as an indication
of how it should sound – and we should note the persistent use of the
8 Graphic Poetics
The lines drawn up in Rank and File, with a capital Initial at the Head of
each, look formidable, and seem to demand a peculiar Degree of Sound
and Energy. . . . (But) it is the quick Succession of a few flowing syllables
that constitutes the Harmony of our English blank verse, and not its
perfect Coincidence with the arbitrary Rules laid down as a Standard
for heroic verse. . . . Blank verse, therefore, does not consist in lines of
ten Syllables, as the regular Couplet generally does; unless, indeed, we
suppose the Standard of Verse created in the Printing House, and that
a Compositor can convert Prose into Verse at Pleasure by printing it in
detached Lines often Syllables, (pp. 176–7). . . . His solution was to reprint
Paradise Lost in accordance with its ‘true’ rhythmic structure. The effects
of this strategy will be considered in due course, but it should first be
noted that he pre-empted the free-verse theorists by claiming that the
irregular, spoken pattern of language could dominate and supersede
the abstract pattern of regular form. For Rice’s ‘quick succession of a few
flowing syllables’ read Lowell’s ‘cadence’. But we should also note that
Rice regards any potential tension between variation and regularity as
caused by the visual format, or, as he puts it, ‘the compositor’.
a couplet from Pope will show, he and Lowell perceived this unit in exactly
the same way as a ‘chief accent’ surrounded by a variable number of sub-
sidiary syllables:
If we confine our enquiry to English, and begin, let us say, with the
sharply defined iambics and systematized caesuras of Pope, we glide
unconsciously, through numerous stages into the ‘freer’ larger rhythms
of Shakespearean or Miltonic blank verse. From these it is but a step to
the varied rhythms of the best free verse. (Poets and Their Art, p. 288)
when we know, that one of the greatest perfections in our blank heroic
verse, is, that of continuing the sense from one line to another, I am
afraid in that case, if there be no mark to show where the measure ends,
it will often be carried away by the sense, and confounded with it, be
changed to pure prose, . . . (p. 104)
It was not that Walker and Sheridan were hearing different poems – they
agreed on the ability of the spoken pattern to sweep away the deep struc-
ture of the pentameter. But they disagreed on what the cognitive proce-
dures of ‘reading poetry’ should actually involve. As I shall show, Sheridan
went on to elaborate a model of interpretation in which the eye of the
reader plays as much part as the voice of the performer and the ear of the
listener. He argued that the double pattern of blank verse could only be
preserved by our ability to see as well as to speak or hear the poem. Walker
acknowledged that the typographic signal existed, but he insisted that the
consequent double pattern could not be discerned in oral performance.
Let us see how John Livingstone Lowes dealt with the same problem in his
Convention and Revolt in Poetry (1919), arguably the first detailed study of
the relationship between free and regular verse:
The regular beat and the shifting rhythm – neither alone but the two
together – these constitute normal English verse. What free verse would
strike out . . . is the recurrent rhythm of the line. Regular verse is the
12 Graphic Poetics
The third his feet shadow’d from either Heel with feather’d Mail
Sky tinctured grain
Compare this with the opening section from Amy Lowell’s ‘An Aquarium’:
In the first quotation the visual space after ‘Mail’ operates outside the tra-
ditional conventions of prosody and syntax by gathering the diffuse lin-
guistic sequence of the first line into a sharper, more concrete image. This
The Double Pattern 13
Milton’s expansive invocation of the Muse, his reference to the song which
soars above the Aonian mount, becomes suddenly immediate in
Things
Unattempted
Chill
Fingers of yew
Again it would seem that both Eliot and, after Milton, Walker have dis-
pensed with the double pattern of regularity and variation and, instead,
14 Graphic Poetics
an axis in the interplay between abstract form and signification. The loss
of rhyme was one stage in the institution of visual form as a component
of the double pattern, and as Rice, Walker, Lowell and Eliot demonstrate,
the destruction of the pentameter would bring its function, literally, into
sharper focus.
Chapter 2
Silent Poetics
First of all let us pose a question. Why do we need to identify a double pat-
tern? Surely it is possible for an intelligent, sensitive reader to respond to
and appreciate free or unfree verse without the assistance of complex pro-
grammes and imperatives of interpretation. This might well be the case, but
without such a framework of analysis such a reader would be unable to state
exactly why one literary text is different from another and how exactly each
text creates its own effect; or at a more basic level, it would be difficult to
distinguish literary appreciation from other kinds of linguistic engagement.
Jonathan Culler, one of the most respected spokesmen for the ever-increasing
complexities of critical interpretation, makes the point that to understand lit-
erature at all we need to move to another level of linguistic competence:
The early critics of free verse were ‘baffled’ not because of their lack of
knowledge of the special conventions of literature but because the new
form did not seem to incorporate or discharge such conventions. In one
of the earliest reviews of free-verse collections (1915) – including verse by
Lowell and Monroe – John Ficke commented on how
‘measured cadence’ rather than the ‘amorphous lines dear to poets today’
is the ‘fundamental instinct which men have felt in all ages and will prob-
ably continue to feel’.
This sense of the double pattern as a validation of genuine craftsman-
ship, the command of the aesthetic medium by the artist, can be traced
back to Kant’s Critique of Judgement.
It is not amiss, however, to remind the reader of this: that in all free arts
something of a compulsory character is still required, or, as it is called, a
mechanism, without which the soul, which in art must be free, and which
alone gives life to the work, would be bodyless and evanescent (e.g. in the
poetic art [der Dichtkunst] there must be correctness and wealth of lan-
guage, likewise prosody and metre). For not a few leaders of a newer
school believe that the best way to promote a free art is to sweep away all
restraint, and convert it from labour into mere play. (I, 164)
One might think that since the ‘newer school’ is now fully institutional-
ized such expectations will have changed, but as the following will show
commentators upon poetic form still ground their procedures upon the
identification of a ‘mechanism’.
One of the most influential statements on how our most basic level of lin-
guistic competence must be redefined in terms of our conscious response to
poetry was made by Roman Jakobson. ‘The poetic function projects the prin-
ciple of equivalence from the axis of selection to the axis of combination.’2
A rough explanation of this complex formulation would be that the choice
of words at each point in a syntactic progression in poetry is made in a dis-
tinctively different way from those made in prose. Jakobson’s ‘axes’ are
adapted from the linguistic theory of Ferdinand de Saussure. In de Saussure’s
terms ‘selection’ is called ‘associative’ and ‘combination’ ‘syntagmatic’. The
combinative or syntagmatic process is what happens when individual words
are connected and produce a communicative meaning from their gram-
matical links. The selective or associative axis refers to the package of words
available for application at each point in the syntagmatic chain. In Jakobson’s
literary application, the combinative mode is generally ‘metonymic’ because
of its manifestation of the contiguity of words, and the associative mode is
‘metaphoric’ since within a package of choices there exists the possibility of
selecting words which will react with and, therefore, complicate other aspects
of the syntagmatic sequence. Jakobson suggests that in prosaic language the
axes can generally be found to be distinctively separate, but in poetry, ‘simi-
larity is superimposed upon continuity, any metonymy is slightly metaphor-
ical and any metaphor has a metonymical link’ (‘Closing Statement’, p. 370).
18 Graphic Poetics
Counterpoint
An accurate description of how modern linguistic metrists deal with the
double pattern is given by Roger Fowler (1966):
two fixed degrees of stress alternating with perfect regularity and uni-
formly disposed in time. At the other extreme is the instrumental reve-
lation that each of the syllables in a line is realized differently by various
complexes of intensity, pitch and length; that there is no identity of
weight among the stresses; that there is no clear binary distinction
between ‘stress’ and ‘unstress’ and that there is no equality of time
interval.5
Jakobson called the ‘old belief in fi xed degrees of stress’ the ‘verse design’
and the ‘various complexes of intensity’, the ‘verse instance’, and this model
of English poetry as realizing an interplay between abstract formal struc-
tures such as the iambic pentameter and the more flexible surface pat-
terns of performance has remained unchallenged as the methodological
keystone of linguistic metrics. It is held that these two elements of the dou-
ble pattern can be effectively ‘reconciled’ in a single spoken performance.
Derek Attridge:
If you prefer to emphasise the regularity of the metre, the resolute irregu-
larity of the language will be felt pulling against you; if you let the speech
rhythms have their head, the periodicity of the beat will exercise a
counter-claim: both readings however, will register the inherent tension
of the line. (The Rhythms of English Poetry, London, 1982.p. 313)
In most forms of regular poetry this effect of oral counterpoint can indeed
be felt by the reader and registered by the hearer, but a problem arises with
verse in which the alternative pattern of speech rhythms becomes power-
ful enough for critics such as Rice and Walker to claim that it effectively
destroys the ‘inherent tension’ of the pentameter. In a 1920 article on the
effect of free verse on traditional methods of prosodic analysis, Llewellyn
Jones stated that in blank verse ‘the metric scheme . . . is not always appar-
ent but exists as a convention in the mind of the poet and the auditor,’ and
that ‘the throwing of a phrase across from one line to the next [makes]
any attempt to scan mechanically such a line hopeless’ (p. 389). In other
words, if the visual signal to the shared awareness of this convention were
removed, it would no longer be ‘apparent’.
I emphasize the mutual dependency between the ideal of the double
pattern and the methodological belief in oral counterpoint in order to
prepare the ground for my examination of the concept of silent poet-
ics. Counterpoint, to be consistent with its origins in music, denotes the
simultaneous production of two contrasting effects. But there is already
20 Graphic Poetics
evidence that some readers, such as Llewellyn Jones, find that such interac-
tions can depend as much upon the existence of ‘a convention in the mind
of the reader’ as they do upon what Attridge calls ‘the inherent tension of
the line’. The possibility that counterpoint could in certain types of poem
register as a distinction between what we see and what we hear – silent
poetics – becomes evident in an unwitting debate that took place between
the eighteenth-century critic Thomas Sheridan and John Hollander, argu-
ably the most incisive modern commentator on the visual/oral dimensions
of poetry. Often focusing upon the same lines from Paradise Lost, these
critics reached two separate conclusions on how the visual structure of
verse affects the transfer of meaning through the communicative circuit
between text and reader. Hollander’s apparently innovative theories of
visualism remain anchored to the orthodox interpretative prominence of
speech over writing, whereas Sheridan developed a method of reading in
which the contrapuntal relation between verse design and verse instance is
divided, respectively, between the eye and the ear.
Consider Sheridan’s reliance upon the visual arts analogy – the effect
‘painted in strong colours’. This inter-aesthetic connection is more than a sty-
listic idiosyncrasy, and as the following examples will show, he employs it con-
sistently with reference to effects generated by the visual format of the poem:
. . . and tore
Through pain up by the roots Thessalian pines
(II, 544–5)
Sheridan
Sheridan
The uncommon spacing, which makes the word glories as it were project
from the rest, the insolent vanity, and obstinate pride of Satan, are more
strongly painted, than could have been done by the longest descrip-
tion, . . . (pp. 253–5)
Sheridan
This artful Manner of writing makes the Reader see them Stop and Turn
to worship God before they went into the Bower. If this Manner was
alter’d, much of the Effect of the Painting would be lost.
Sheridan is not claiming that what the reader actually sees on the page is
anything other than the words themselves in their symbolic, referential
function. But there is also a sense that individual linguistic integers, when
freed from the deterministic imperatives of syntax and linearity, begin to
operate individually, much like the spatial constituents of a painting. This
tentative awareness of the ability of visible language to enact its own ref-
erential function is more clearly stated in Sheridan’s conjectures upon his
method of reading.
In the following he redefines two terms, harmony and melody, which
were widely used in eighteenth-century analyses of poetic form. When read-
ing Milton’s visual format, harmony, for Sheridan, becomes a dimension of
ocular perception whereas melody is limited to the medium of sequential,
oral language:
The orthodox critical belief in the oral simultaneity of the double pattern
becomes, in Sheridan’s model, an effect which is split between two separate
cognitive faculties of the eye and the ear.
The revolutionary nature of Sheridan’s thesis becomes even more strik-
ing when we compare it with Hollander’s reflections upon cognition and
methodology in his essay ‘The Poem in the Eye’ (in Vision and Resonance,
1975). Hollander argues that seeing and hearing poems are separate
engagements, analogous to the Saussurean division of language into a sys-
tem of differences and individual speech events.
It is on the second of these axes that I would pose the ear, the individual
talent, the voice, the parole; on the first are ranged the eye, the tradition,
the mask through which the voice sounds, and the langue. The ear
responds to the dimension of natural experience, the eye to that of con-
vention, . . . (p. 248)
Hollander has thus promoted ‘the mask’ of the visual format beyond the
notion of a practical register of the balance between the cognitive and the
conventional dimensions of language to the elevated status of a convention
in its own right. But Sheridan argues that the distinction between speech
as a cognitive dimension and the visual format as its conventional counter-
part should be replaced by a model which establishes them as contrasting.
Lessing
The majority of the critics of poetic form dealt with above, both as apolo-
gists for free verse and analysts of its regular counterpart, are united
in their allegiance to poetry as essentially an aural medium, and it is
intriguing that the most contentious and widely debated theoretical
model of poetry’s inter-aesthetic relationships should be based upon a
comparison with the visual arts. In his eighteenth-century work Laokoon
Gotthold Lessing elaborated upon Horace’s phrase ut pictura poesis (as in
painting, so in poetry). Lessing argued that painting (and sculpture) is
equipped to deal with objects which exist in space by representing these
objects and their parts as juxtaposed. Poetry, and for that matter all lan-
guage, is committed to the representation of actions in time, a condition
which is determined by its linear, successive identity as syntax and gram-
mar. Sheridan’s model of reading offers an intriguing revision of this
problem of aesthetic polarity. The silent contemplation of the written
text grants the reader a degree of freedom and a mastery of the aesthetic
24 Graphic Poetics
object that Lessing’s thesis tells us belongs in the realm of the visual
arts. The successive, linear order of poetic and indeed of all linguistic
integers is based upon the reception of language as an aural medium.
Sheridan argues that when these integers are arranged according to the
visual format of the poem, the silent reader is able to savour the simulta-
neous juxtaposition of two contrasting formal and syntactic patterns in
a way that is very similar to our experience of integrating the timeless,
spatial components of a painting – as he puts it, ‘the different members
of verse . . . are presented to the eye as a coexistent whole’. Compare this
with Suzanne Langer’s restatement of Lessing in Philosophy in a New Key
(1942):
The most radical difference is that visual forms are not discursive. They
do not present their constituents successively, but simultaneously, so
that relations determining a visual structure are grasped in one act of
vision. (p. 93)
In Sheridan’s conception of poetry, the discursive and the spatial, the suc-
cessive and the simultaneous dimensions of representation begin to fold in
upon one another.
To accept this argument will involve an extensive and radical revision of
the orthodox conception of poetry as the aesthetic archetype of spoken
communication. To begin this process we should address two interrelated
assumptions. First, Lessing’s polarity would seem to grant each of the ‘sister
arts’ a more or less equal status as expressive and representational media,
but the divisions become most apparent when we consider the relationship
between the material components of each medium. In basic terms the raw
material of the visual arts is more closely related, both in representational
and in natural terms, with its referent. C. S. Peirce’s concept of the ‘iconic’
sign is most easily substantiated in the form of representational painting
which, although limited by its static and two-dimensional. condition, does
not require a significant amount of decoding for the viewer to make con-
nection between sign and referent. Semi-literate children will ‘recognize’
a picture of a tree. But with language and poetry the system, the mode of
representation, is more arbitrarily related to the continuum of its referents.
There is no natural connection between the phonemic and graphic struc-
tures of language and the substance of the experiences and objects they
seek to represent.
Second, our responses to these different media foreground distinc-
tions between the interpreter’s roles as passive and active within the
Silent Poetics 25
of poetry. Printed below is Williams’s poem (on the left) and a very similar
complex of effects from the seventeenth/eighteenth centuries:
. . . the line termini cut the words ‘wheelbarrow’ and ‘rainwater’ into
their constituents, without the use of hyphenation to warn that the first
noun is part of a compound with the implication that they are phenomeno-
logical constituents as well. The wheel plus the barrow equals the wheelbar-
row and in the freshness of the light after the rain (it is the kind of light
which the poem is about, although never mentioned directly), things
seem to lose their compounded properties, . . . (p. 111)
(It is) possible to take the action to pieces and to consider it first with
relation to the agent and next with relation to the patient. But after all,
so intimately connected are the parts of the thought that it requires an
effort to make a separation even for a moment: the subtilising to such a
degree is not agreeable, especially in works of the imagination. (Elements
of Criticism, II, p. 130)
certain types of blank and free verse. The stable secondary pattern of sound
and rhythm is replaced by a form of signification which depends upon the
spatial relation between linguistic integers, and the tension or counter-
point between these two patterns is created by a disjunction between the
temporal movement of language and the movement of he eye across its
static configurations on the page. Our acceptance of such a phenomenon
raises a number of serious questions regarding the traditional conception
of the poem as a spoken event. Should we accept that some poems can
only be fully appreciated in silence and, if so, how will this affect a criti-
cal methodology based upon the written text as a record of a speaking
presence? I shall begin to address these in the next chapter, but before
that it would be useful to continue the investigation of the poetry-painting
relationship.
Davie
The effect is kinetic. The placing of ‘Him’, ‘down’ and ‘To’ in particular,
gives us the illusion as we read that our muscles are tightening in panic
as we experience in our bodies a movement just as headlong and precipi-
tate as the one described. We occupy in ourselves the gestalt of falling.7
What Davie implies, but does not state, is that the effect of falling can
only be fully appreciated if the reader can both hear and see the verse.
Silent Poetics 29
power
Hurled
down
To dwell
In
Nose under
Hoop,
Tail,
Dive,
And gone;
With smooth over-swirlings of blue water,
Oil-smooth cobalt,
Slipping, liquid lapis lazuli,
Emerald shadings,
Timings of pink and ochre.
Prismatic slidings
Underneath a windy sky.
The point she makes about these ‘lines’ – some consisting of one syllable –
is that they should work as a kind of ‘score’ for vocal performance, observ-
ing that when ‘read aloud’, the ‘change of rhythm at the line “With smooth
over-swirlings of blue water” signals a change of emphasis from “the leap-
ing curves of the dolphins” to the “long, slow glide of an unbroken sea.” ’
It is true that in oral performance there is a discernible shift from the
clipped, irregular pattern of the first part to the more languid ‘cadences’ of
the second. But these effects are only partially realized without the visual
impression of the written language which creates a diagram of the dol-
phins’ movements. In the same way that our eye follows Satan’s descent,
down
To dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Drop,
Nose under.
Hoop,
Tail,
Dive,
And gone;
The linear pattern of spoken performance and the way in which each
verbal reference to the dolphins’ movement traces out a graphic pattern
on the page are complementary but by no means parallel co-ordinates.
Silent Poetics 31
In both poems the process of reading the printed text from left to right,
which in spoken performance becomes a linear unidimensional progres-
sion, is subtly disrupted by the visual shape. The vertical breaks could be
translated into spoken pauses, but as such they would lose their uniquely
graphic dimension.
Clearly the effects generated by both poems fall within a limited cat-
egory of verbal mimesis. The referential, indexical evocation of descent is
matched, conveniently enough, by the literal descent of the graphic inte-
gers, and it would be impossible to create a similar kind of linear/spatial
diagram of the rising of the sun or the ascent of a mountain. But even
within their limitations these effects offer a challenge to Lessing’s visual-
linguistic polarity. Lessing:
The poet who has consistently exploited this interface between formal
convention and its revolutionary offspring is e. e. cummings. cummings’s
deployment of graphic language is varied and complex, but the motif of
falling, both as a referential theme and as a physical enactment, occurs
almost as a habit, and this testifies to the origin of his complex visual tech-
niques in the more orthodox institution of the poetic line. A well-known
example of falling occurs in one of his later volumes, 95 Poems:
I (a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
1
iness
Christopher Ricks in Milton’s Grand Style (1963) comments on how the word
‘soft’ operates both as an adjective (her soft hand) and an adverb (softly
she withdrew), creating an intriguing tension between her physical pres-
ence and its emotional/tactical effects upon Adam. Ricks goes on to claim
that ‘e. e. cummings might achieve such effects through typography and
punctuation – Milton uses syntax’ (p. 90). This is an inaccurate compari-
son, because there is clearly a similarity between Milton’s use of the visual
break to split the syntactic movement into two conflicting patterns of mean-
ing, and cummings’s extension of this technique into the literal inscription
of syntactic diversity within the visual text. Furthermore, what Ricks calls
the ‘delicate fusion of two points of view’ is not dissimilar to Jakobson’s
formula: ‘In poetry where similarity is superinduced upon contiguity, any
metonymy is slightly metaphorical and any metaphor has a metonymical
tint’ (‘Closing Statement’, p. 370). The literal, metonymic sense of ‘her soft
hand’ does indeed seem to merge into the more metaphoric sense of ‘soft-
ness’ as part of her demeanour and character.
So, whereas the acoustic secondary pattern operates as a prompter to
‘semantic similarity or contrast’, the visual secondary pattern becomes
an active constituent in what Jakobson calls poetry’s ‘symbolic, multiplex,
polysemantic essence’ (‘Closing Statement’, p. 370). In crude terms, such
effects are generated by the ability of visual juxtaposition to destabilize the
temporal relation between linguistic integers. Hollander and Sheridan are
able to discern the simultaneous presence of two syntactic tracks in ‘what
must be’ and ‘what must be worse’, and as such the latter as a metonymic
structure is co-present with the former’s metaphoric evocation of deter-
minism and inevitability, and both are locked into the silent, kinetic struc-
ture of the printed text.
As will become clear, this effect of the visual text as a phenomenon which
incorporates complexities, diversities and polysemantic tensions is some-
thing which the codes and expectations of critical writing are not equipped,
or indeed inclined, to deal with, and the next chapter will address a number
of the most serious critical questions raised by the reading of silent poetics.
Chapter 3
Critical Antipathy
The most obvious objection to the acceptance of the poem as a visual arte-
fact is well rehearsed: it is too easy to create. It is, argue the detractors, a
simple procedure to divide up language into typographic segments and
offer this to the reader as a ‘poem’ which engages both the visual and
the auditory faculties. In Structuralist Poetics (p. 163), Jonathan Culler rear-
ranges the opening sentence from Quine’s philosophic treatise, From a
Logical Point of View, in the manner of such later free versifiers as Charles
Olson:
From a Logical Point of View
A curious
thing
about the
ontological
problem
is
its
simplicity
this is why the convention of free verse was developed in the first place:
to make us aware of the poetry in our prose, of the imaginative alterna-
tives that exist even in ordinary language. But the fact that resulting
poetic rhythms were already there in the prose only makes more evident
the fact that the differences between the prose and verse passage are the
result of a change in conventional expectations, modes of attention, and
interpretive strategies, rather than the result of any alteration of the lin-
guistic material itself. (pp. 21–2)
Phonic Naturalization
of the text, and encoded within this procedure is our unshakeable belief in
the relative effects of succession and simultaneity.
Consider the opening lines of Pope’s ‘Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot’:
Hearing these lines, we can discern a peculiar tension between the pro-
gressive, syntactic movement of the couplet and the extra-syntactic echo
of ‘said’ in ‘dead’. Logically there should be no correspondence between
Pope’s straightforward order to his servant and the potentially disruptive
juxtaposition of life (speech) and death. How do we naturalize this phe-
nomenon? W. K. Wimsatt in his seminal article on rhyme, ‘One Relation
of Rhyme to Reason’ (1944), offers a formula: ‘The words of a rhyme, with
their curious harmony of sound and distinction of sense, are an amalgam
of the sensory and the logical, or an arrest and precipitation of the logical
in sensory form; they are the ikon in which the idea is caught’ (p. 163).
The key term here is the ‘arrest and precipitation of the logical in sensory
form’. Following Wimsatt’s advice, we might comment on how the ‘said–
dead’ amalgam of the sensory and the logical adds an extra dimension
of signification to the statement of the couplet: the fact that Pope is able
to vocalize his own posthumous condition imbues what might otherwise
be an unengaging problem of domestic order with a degree of dark com-
edy. But naturalizing the tension between device and meaning in this way
necessarily involves the imposition of the linear format of prose criticism
upon the simultaneity of the initial impression. This does not invalidate
Wimsatt’s claim that the logical movement of language is ‘arrested’ and
‘precipitated’ in the sensory form of rhyme, but it should remind us of
the considerable gap between intuitive response and its subsequent for-
malization in criticism. In an important sense, naturalization defuses the
potentially chaotic interrelation between material signifiers and projected
signifieds which Wimsatt celebrates as the essentially ‘poetic’ value of
rhyme. And crucially, it enables us to reassemble these elements as the uni-
fied conception of the voice of the poet.
In Gray’s line ‘the curfew tolls the knell of passing day’ the reader is again
drawn into an awareness of an amalgam of a referential statement with its
material constituents, which might be similarly naturalized by claiming
that the stressed syllables seem to ring through the syntax rather like the
incessant tolling of a bell. And again the simultaneous auditory experience
of the material pattern of language and its syntactic, referential structure
Critical Antipathy 39
To accept the aesthetic and perceptual criteria invoked in this model would
mean that, whatever else it might be, cummings’s reflection on the fall-
ing leaf certainly cannot be regarded as a poem, because it has to remain
40 Graphic Poetics
before our eyes to mean anything at all. Jakobson’s exclusion of poetic lan-
guage from the perceptual sphere in which the artefact must be present
as a visual structure is the assumption which underpins Attridge’s, Ricks’s,
Davie’s and Hollander’s reluctance to grant visual form an equivalent sig-
nifying status to that of the aural, successive medium. The poetic medium
of communication is by no means transparent, but to perceive its internal
tensions and formal syntheses as a function of its spoken form at least con-
firms the presence of its creator, and confirms the critic in his belief that
in negotiating the refractory complexities of the form he can, as Hollander
puts it, hear the voice of the poet through the mask. But to acknowledge
that the visual text is a source of signification which must ‘remain before
our eyes’ takes us into an interpretative experience for which there is no
aural counterpart. It is not the equivalent of hearing two meanings in the
same vocal statement but of hearing two different statements delivered
simultaneously by the same person.
Consider the opening sequence of Pound’s ‘The Return’:
tentative
Movements
and
uncertain
Wavering
Critical Antipathy 41
And perhaps the word ‘feet’ refers both to the picture created by the text
and signals a self-referential awareness that in the new poetic the tra-
ditional instrument of poetic composition, the feet, trace out a formal pat-
tern of tentative, uncertain movements as ‘they return, one, and by one’
to the left-hand margin of the text. The auditory naturalization can occur
when, as Jakobson puts it, the ‘phonemes have already vanished’, surviving
merely as ‘afterimages, somewhat abridged reminiscences’. But, in the pro-
cess through which we can, literally, ‘see’ the verbal diagram of the referen-
tial image, ‘the [poem] as a whole must remain before our eyes.’
There are, in effect, two texts, rather than two meanings within the same
text. Auditory naturalization, as posited by Jakobson, enables us to draw
together the formal hesitancies of the speaker and the intended effect of
the referential statement, but visual naturalization can, and indeed must,
take place in the absence of the speaker because it is only the presence
of the graphic, physical medium which guarantees the correspondence
between form and effect. The reader becomes an active participant in the
process of textual signification, but this does not constitute what is gener-
ally referred to as the ‘death of the author’. The author is certainly absent
in the sense that neither he nor his vicarious representative in an oral read-
ing can fully convey the total effect of the poem, but he is also present in
the sense that we are aware that the author has created, if not actually
uttered, this synthesis of meanings.
There are two fundamental reasons why the critical establishment is reluc-
tant to deal with the signifying functions of visual form in poetry. First,
it is clear that to accept that meaning can be inscribed within the silent
materiality of the text will raise disturbing questions regarding the ideal of
speech as the primary medium of human exchange. Chapter 5 will exam-
ine the ways in which this anxiety manifested itself in the creative and
ex-cathedra writings of the early free-versifiers, and Chapter 4 on ‘The Poet
in the Poem’ will contend that visible language can offer a guarantee of
presence which is just as vivid and enduring as that of its spoken counter-
part. The second reason is a consequence of the first: The language of
analysis and appreciation, whatever claims it might have to plurality and
flexibility, will inevitably embody and reflect the dominant prejudices and
allegiances of its users. Consequently, the language we use to describe lit-
erature will have a serious influence upon our perception of what it is and
42 Graphic Poetics
of how it works. Terms such as ‘close reading’ and ‘the words on the page’
are locked into the metaphoric rather than the literal mode of significa-
tion. The ‘close reading’ of a literary text is a procedure which derives from
the New Critical objective of isolating its internal structure and meaning
from such variable considerations as the biographical or social circum-
stances of its composition, and the ‘words on the page’ refer to this same
desire to prevent the words not on the page, such as the poet’s letters, jour-
nals, and ex-cathedra writings, from shifting the interpretative focus away
from the self-contained structure of the text. Their literal connotation of
attending to the visual materiality of the artefact would be regarded as a
misinterpretation – indeed there is no accepted critical term to describe
such an activity. It is true that such uses of spatial imagery as figurative or
metaphoric terms do not actually prevent us from contemplating or appre-
ciating visual form, but they operate as a series of barriers against our abil-
ity to formalize in descriptive language what we might intuitively perceive.
In studies of avant garde poetry one frequently encounters references to
‘space’, to the ‘field’ of the text and to the opposition between ‘temporal’
and ‘spatial’ dimensions of representation. In every instance, however, the
critic stops short of allowing themselves even to contemplate the literal
sense of these concepts, the actuality of the words on the page. Always,
they seek protection in a figurative designation. For example Paul Hoover
(1994) opens with ‘The progress of a line or sentence, or a series of lines
or sentences, has spatial properties as well as temporal properties. The
spatial density is both vertical and horizontal.’ (p. 654), which causes us
to assume that he is referring to the type of effect we have so far encoun-
tered in the verse of Milton. But no: ‘The meaning of a word in its place
derives both from the word’s lateral reach, its contact with its neighbours
in a statement . . . ’ by which he means the relationship between words in a
grammatical unit – a dynamic that we encounter both literally as the words
are strung out diagonally across the page and in a more complex epistemo-
logical sense as the smallest units of meaning combining to create more
substantial concepts. However, in his description of the vertical axis any lin-
gering possibility of a literal frame of reference – that is, words interacting
vertically up and down the page – is extinguished. Here he is concerned
with the ‘reach’ of meaning ‘through and out of the text into the other
world, the matrix of its contemporary and historical reference’. Hoover’s
analogy is founded upon Roman Jakobson’s diagram of the horizontal and
vertical axes of language (see below pp. 46–7), which we are not supposed
to take literally, in that we do not select words by reaching upwards. At the
same time there is within criticism a self-imposed veto on allowing even
Critical Antipathy 43
for the possibility that some poets might, as they assemble their verse, find
themselves fascinated not merely by the sound or the grammatical force of
their words but also by secondary patterns of meaning made available by
the 360˚ visual format of the page. In Ian Davidson’s recent Ideas of Space in
Contemporary Poetry (2007), one chapter only is given over to poetry which
makes use of the visual format, and even then the poets referred to are
those who use the shapes of language ostentatiously in a Concretist man-
ner. It is almost as though some phobic aversion is attached to the idea that
mainstream poets could indulge a fascination for words as visible objects
and project this into their work: something that is perhaps too primitive to
be entertained as an accompaniment to the workings of the intellect.
In ‘Spatial Form in Literature: Toward a General Theory’ W. J. T. Mitchell
considers what he regards to be the most significant developments in the
inter-aesthetic study of literature and the visual arts. He concludes that
its traditional identity as a work of art, is moving? Are we, in any case, mea-
suring its velocity or its length? What prosodists fail to admit is that to mea-
sure, or, in simple terms, to discern, a linguistic unit which has abandoned
or compromised the regularity of rhyming or alliterative/assonantal sound
patterns we need to be able to see it in its static form as well as hear its
movement. And since, as has become apparent, the disjunction between
what we hear and what we see has become a persistent, though generally
unacknowledged, feature of poetry since Milton’s blank verse, it is difficult,
in Mitchell’s terms to, ‘[make] intelligible and explicit the underlying pat-
terns’. The nature of this difficulty can best be illustrated not through a
continued interrogation of critical protocols and terminology but by look-
ing at the poetic writing of William Carlos Williams.
Consider the following poem by Williams, first published in 1934:
Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her.
The first point to make is that this, like a number of Williams’s other poems,
operates as a challenge to the conventional protocols of critical theory and
interpretative practice. The nature of this challenge becomes evident when
we note that Williams pre-empts Noam Chomsky’s illustration of how a sin-
gle, syntactic, deep structure can generate a number of distinct patterns of
signification. Chomsky cited the sentence ‘They don’t know how good meat
Critical Antipathy 45
Metaphoric
Associative
Selective
Metonymic
Syntagmatic
Combinative
Critical Antipathy 47
SYNTAGM
P The child sleeps
A a kid dozes
R some youngster nods
A etc. tot naps
D infant wakes
I boy dream
G woman etc.
M etc.
sweetest
woman
excess
of
fallen
woodbine
excess
of
odor
woman
man
There is a consistent interplay between these vertical patterns and the more
prominent features of the horizontal, successive pattern:
such procedures. There is clearly some sort of interplay between the con-
ventional foregrounding of words at each line ending and the sequential,
though very uncertain, movement of the syntax. We might naturalize this
by stating that the poem is ‘about’ the poet’s attempts to confine and ratio-
nalize a sequence of phenomena drawn from images of the natural world
and their correspondence with humanity, male and female. But when we
consider exactly how this impression is generated we must also concede
that our attempts to reconcile the vertical sequence (the convention, the
sonnet) with its horizontal, temporal counterpart must involve awareness
that the arbitrary formal dimension of the text can only be perceived visu-
ally, in silence. In a rhymed sonnet we can hear the criss-crossing of syntax
and sound pattern, but here we find ourselves watching the literal criss-
crossing of shape and sequence.
The term ‘deconstruction’ is probably overemployed in current liter-
ary criticism, but this is clearly what Williams does with the conventional
discourse of criticism and interpretation. Hawkes’s and Fowler’s diagrams
encode and validate the hierarchies of phonic naturalization – we visu-
alize what we have heard in order to make sense of how this pattern of
meanings is constructed and decoded. In Williams’s poem this same pro-
cess of visualization takes place alongside our reception of the acoustic
materiality; we find patterns, interactions between the syntagmatic and the
paradigmatic – bodies, logs, women, fallen, woodbine, excess – but the lit-
eral, visual structure of the poem pre-empts our attempts to turn text into
analysis and metatext.
Williams demonstrates the genuine signifying function of visual pat-
terns. His poem is a silently eloquent counter-argument against the claims
of Culler, Forrest-Thomson and Fish that the visual format is a signal to
reader-centred naturalization. He negotiates an arbitrary formal structure
in the same way that a conventional poet would negotiate an abstract pat-
tern of rhyme and metre, but the effects of this clash between form and
effect must be registered in silence.
Hawkes’s and Fowler’s diagrams are useful in our attempts to deal
with visual form, because they foreground another instance of accident
in collusion with design. Diagrams of metre and syntax have been used
by prosodists and transformational linguists to illustrate the productive
interrelation between the acoustic materiality of language, its systematic
structure and its meaning. They represent, in the simplest sense, a picture
of what happens when we hear and decode language. Similarly, Hawkes
and Fowler urge the reader to imagine, to visualize, what happens in the
construction and reception of temporal language. They also inadvertently
50 Graphic Poetics
In this chapter I shall address two issues. First, what can the poet achieve
by using silent poetics to disrupt the conventional procedures of interpre-
tation? Secondly, I shall consider in more detail the relation between poet,
text and reader, giving greater emphasis to the relation between the visual
poem and visual art.
The poem as an autonomous aesthetic object is a concept fraught with
contradictions, all of which derive from the uncertain relation between
its material existence as language and the idea of its origin in the mind
and the experience of the poet prior to its linguistic realization. Roman
Ingarden distinguishes between aesthetic objects which are iconic, in the
sense that their form incorporates elements of pre-representational experi-
ence (painting and sculpture), and the linguistic text which is ‘a purely
intentional object’ – corresponding with Hollander’s model of ‘the mask
through which the voice sounds’. Ingarden: ‘In comparison with the onti-
cally autonomous object, [the intentional object] is an “illusion” that draws
its illusionary existence and essence from the projecting intention . . . of the
intentional act’ (pp. 122–3). This is the reflex upon which the procedures
of critical naturalization are founded. Before commenting upon what a
poem means we need to construct a fictional situation of utterance, to
bring into being a voice and an addressee, however much this might be
inconsistent with our knowledge of the writer, the poem and its circum-
stances of imposition. In basic terms we achieve this by relying upon the
‘deictics’ or orientational features of language which relate to the situation
of the utterance. From these we work outwards from the text itself to cre-
ate a framework of plausible fictive circumstances in which the utterance
could have occurred. For instance, in one of Donne’s most adventurous
amatory verses, ‘The Flea’, it would strain credibility to imagine that a
man could improvise a series of such wild conceits and interweave them
with a tight stanzaic framework within seconds of the female addressee’s
attempt to swat the vehicle of his metaphor. But we prevent ourselves from
52 Graphic Poetics
uncertainty and, within the context of the poem, betrayal. For instance,
she describes her memory of looking ‘into the clear’ (line 458) – a substan-
tive form which was widely used in the period to denote an unbroken view
across the sea. But then the eye moves around the line ending to connect
‘clear’ with ‘smooth lake’ and to re-establish its adjectival usage. There is
also the section in which she recounts the voice of God, who tells her to
follow me
And I will bring thee where no shadow stays
Thy coming
(IV, 470–1)
In the brief period it takes the reading eye to adjust to the syntax of the
new line, the isolated word ‘stays’ might for a moment connote ‘restrains’
instead of its intended meaning, ‘awaits’. But if, like Hollander, we assume
that these paratactic slippages allow the listener to contemplate a hesitant,
unreliable dimension of Eve’s character, then we are faced with a problem
since none of this becomes evident to Adam, the person to whom these
promises of commitment were originally, and orally, addressed. The dif-
ference is that Hollander has a copy of the printed text; it is his ability to
trace two separate and often divergent tracks of form and meaning across
the written signifiers that grants him access to Eve’s unspoken betrayals.
We find that Sheridan and his visualist predecessor, Samuel Woodford,
are also aware of the problem presented by these lines, but their solution,
or rather avoidance of a solution, is quite different. Samuel Woodford, in
the Preface to his Paraphrase upon the Canticles (1679), performed an exer-
cise which has become almost a habit in twentieth-century criticism of free
verse. He reprinted a section for Paradise Lost as prose and a section of
Milton’s prose as ‘verse’. The most significant element of Woodford’s experi-
ment was his awareness of how the printed, unrhymed poetic line could
intensify or destabilize the linear continuities of language. For instance, he
chose to place the line break in the reprinted prose at points such as
. . . to express
Power
. . . to cast
Derision
So, although Woodford did not engage in readings of the visual format so
elaborate as Sheridan’s or Hollander’s, he proved himself to be aware of
The Poet in the Poem 55
what must be
Worse
But what he did, without fully explaining why, was to neutralize the visual
format of Eve’s speech by turning it into a safely prosaic paraphrase: ‘Follow
me, and I will bring thee, not to a shadow such as you see in the water, but
to a substance; to him whose image thou art, as that in the watery gleam
is thine. Him as a substance you may enjoy; this as a shadow you cannot’
(pp. 378–9). Perhaps this is the speech that he would like to have ‘heard’,
cleansed as it is of Eve’s poetic betrayals to the silent reader. He goes a stage
further than Woodford’s reprinting of the lines by actually changing the
words themselves, as if he felt the need to expunge even the memory of the
more disturbing elements of silent poetics. What all three commentators
56 Graphic Poetics
for so
I formed them free, and free they must remain,
Till they enthral themselves: I else must change
Their nature.
Isobel Armstrong (1978) and Antony Easthope (1983) note that there
are crucial ambiguities at the terminal words ‘impress’ and ‘connect’.
‘Connect’ could refer to an unbroken unity of panorama, ‘the cliffs con-
nect the landscape to the sky’, and it could also refer to the process of
mediation, ‘I connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky.’ Similarly,
with ‘impress’, there is a momentary hesitation between the cliffs literally
imposing upon the landscape (a typical eighteenth-century inversion) and
the revelation that the cliffs impress ‘thoughts of deep seclusion’ upon
Wordsworth himself. Both commentators identify these ambiguities as,
in Ingarden’s terms, part of the ‘illusion’ of the intentional object which
grants us access to a speaking presence behind it; Armstrong proposing
the text as an example of the tendency of Romantic syntax to effect ‘trans-
formations in perception and relationship’ (p. 263) and Easthope as an
example of parataxis, ‘the juxtaposed syntax of speech’ (p. 127). There
are indeed two syntactic patterns and, as Easthope puts it, they are jux-
taposed, but the spoken pattern is juxtaposed within the silent, graphic
fabric of the verse form. Yet, had these critics based their readings upon
their reception of the spoken text, without any reference to its written
form, they would not have been able to discern the complex interweav-
ing of two patterns of meaning. In spoken performance it is inevitable
that the rhetorical centre of the passage moves towards ‘Do I behold’, and
however much the performer might attempt to emphasize the ambiguous
pauses after ‘impress’ and ‘connect’ a cognitive framework dominated by
the presence of the speaker will impose a hierarchy of responses in which
it is the speaker who is responding to the ‘impress(ion)’ and who goes on
to ‘connect’, while the possibilities of the cliffs impressing upon the land-
scape and connecting it with the sky move quietly into the interpretative
background. But when also read with the eye the isolation of ‘impress’
first makes us aware of the potential for closure and completion in line
six, and a residual sense of disorientation transfers itself to the similarly
isolated ‘connect’ even before the reading eye has moved, to the left,
to the beginning of the next line and, to the right, through the quali-
fying phrase ‘thoughts of more deep seclusion’. Thus the printed, static
artefact operates, like the painting, as the point at which the material of
representation is inserted between the reader/viewer and the speaker/
painter. Wordsworth reveals himself both as the instinctive axis between
60 Graphic Poetics
Thomas Sheridan considered another ‘one, blind and alone’ who, in the
moving soliloquy of Book III of Paradise Lost (11. 40–2), contemplated the
limits of his condition:
Sheridan observed that the line ending ‘stops you unexpectedly, and strikes
the imagination with the immensity of his loss. He can no more see – what? –
Day! – Day and all its glories rush into the mind . . . ’ (II, pp. 246–7). With
this in mind Wordsworth’s evocation of the blind man approaching the
cliff edge with only his ear for guidance is strikingly similar to the notion
of the blind poet advancing towards the precipice of the line ‘Protected,
say enlightened, by his ear’. Sheridan responds to the poignancy of his own
ability to ‘see’ the visual isolation of the signifier ‘Day’, from which, in its
prelinguistic form, Milton is permanently excluded. Sheridan becomes the
reader,
whose eye
Beholds the gulf beneath.
and enact a self-referential pattern as our eye follows the visual structure of
the poem? Could it be that the blind walker who ‘timely warned’ . . . ‘would
have stayed his steps’ is united with the poet who counts out his progress
towards the line ending by a form of measurement generally known as
‘feet’? John Walker, who dismissed Milton’s visual format as irrelevant to
spoken pattern, observed: ‘But have we not reason to suspect, that the eye
puts a cheat on the ear, by making us imagine a pause to exist, where there
is only a vacancy to the eye’ (Elements of Elocution, 1781, p. 212). Walker,
without intending to, has come upon the ingenuity of Wordsworth’s lines.
The eye does indeed put a cheat upon the ear to the extent that, like cum-
mings’s falling leaf, the transcendent, ideational image of the spoken form
is challenged by our ocular contemplation of the language, and indeed
of its creator, moving towards the brink, the vacancy of the line ending.
The poet is both the source of the ephemeral spoken medium and, like
the painter, within the static artefact. Walker again on the experience of
reaching the line ending: ‘The . . . reader cannot at first prevail on himself
to follow him [the poet], but finds himself stopped at the end of the line as
if terminated by a precipice’ (A Rhetorical Grammar, p. 333).
Williams in his essay on, e. e. cummings’s ‘Paintings and Poems’ (1954),
observes of cummings’s short and virtually incomprehensible ‘nonsun blob
a’ that, as a fellow poet, he does not need to understand cummings’s words
as an ideational diagram. It is enough to feel the presence of cummings
within something which, whatever it might mean, is certainly a poetic struc-
ture: ‘Therefore it is a poem and not for anything the lines say’ (Dijkstra,
p. 236). His most revealing disclosure comes when he refers to the sense
both of freedom and control which the poet feels when he moves with his
words across the page. ‘It is marvellous to be so intoxicatedly loosed along
the page. We (as all poets feel) are free to cut diagonally across the page as
if it were a field of daisies to lie down among them when the sun is shining
“to loaf at our ease” ’ (Dijkstra, p. 236). Even in Williams’s prose simile we
find a sense of the poem as being simultaneously about something (walking
through a field?) and incorporating that experience within its own phys-
ical, non-referential structure, and we cannot help but recall Wordsworth’s
deployment of the ‘precipice’ of the line ending to evoke movement towards
the precipice of the cliff and his use of the ‘line’ as both a reference to the
material structure of the poem and to the image of the dissolved horizon.
Williams’s most telling acknowledgement of the poetic line as a phenom-
enon which slips between the referential and the material functions of lan-
guage occurs not in his criticism but in a poem from his later collection,
Pictures from Brueghel. The title of ‘Some Simple Measures in the American
The Poet in the Poem 63
Idiom and the Variable Foot’ signals that the poem will engage directly
with the process of its composition. The following is section II, ‘Perpetuum
Mobile’:
back and
forth and back and forth
and back and forth.
they
pause sometimes before
a store window and
the word ‘they’ refers both to the girls and to the fact that the (variable)
feet of the poem literally cause us to ‘pause sometimes before’ the word
‘pause’ appears. The reference to the ‘store window’ shifts the attention
of the reader out again beyond the materiality of the poem, but before we
can establish a hierarchy of responses we find ourselves contemplating the
‘line’ as it is ‘reformed’ both by the hand of the poet and by the movement
of the girls. The reader is literally drawn
back and
forth and back and forth
and back and forth
crack, fracture, fault, split, fragment, (brèche, cassure, fracture, faille, fente,
fragment.) – Hinged articulation of two parts of wood – or metal work. The
hinge, the brisure (folding-joint) of a shutter. CF. joint’ . . . (p. 65)
The brisure of the poetic line allows the poet to break into the movement of
the speech pattern without necessarily destroying its continuity, and at the
same time to create an alternative pattern which is permanently inscribed
within the static, printed text. Williams’s best-known and most closely ana-
lysed ex-cathedra reflection on poetic structure occurs in ‘On Measure –
Statement for Cid Corman’.1 This statement is, to say the least, enigmatic.
Williams considers what has happened to free verse in the 40 years since
its emergence as an alternative to formal regularity, and concludes, if the
statement can be said to have a conclusion, that twentieth-century poetics
has failed to produce a ‘measure’ which in any way parallels or corresponds
to the revolutions in society, science, self-image that are the challenging
and recognizable fruits of the ‘modern’. The most striking thing about the
essay is its similarity to the comments of the early anti-free verse critics. He
laments the lack of any new formal code which might sustain the modern-
ist poetic as an alternative to the ‘frozen’ conventions of traditionalism:
It is all over the page at the mere whim of the man who has composed it.
This will not do. Certainly an art which implies a discipline as the poem
does, a rule, a measure, will not tolerate it. There is no measure to guide
us, no recognisable measure. (p. 409)
Relativity gives us the cue. So, again, mathematics comes to the rescue
of the arts. Measure, an ancient word in poetry, something we have
66 Graphic Poetics
The ‘relatively stable foot’ also came to be known as the ‘variable foot’, a
paradoxical phenomenon which neither Williams nor any commentator
on his work has succeeded in resolving. How can something be ‘variable’
when the two points of reference which are supposed to account for its
existence, the fundamental cognitive pattern of language and the formal
structure of poetry, are equally flexible and contingent? I have already
argued that this fugitive ideal of stability can be located in the relation
between the static phenomenon of the printed text and the temporal
movement of language which registers as a form of counterpoint between
what the reader sees and hears, and there is circumstantial evidence that
Williams’s enthusiasm for relativity is indeed fuelled by an awareness of a
fruitful tension between stasis and movement in language. Mike Weaver in
William Carlos Williams (1971) argues that Williams’s concept of the ‘vari-
able foot’ originated in the 1920s from his interest in the interdisciplin-
ary relations between physics, mathematics and phenomenology. In 1926
Williams proposed to his friend John Riordan that they should collaborate
on a study of ‘modern prosody’ – a project which, sadly, never materialized.
Riordan was, by profession, an engineer who later published several books
on mathematics, and it was his interest in the connection between rela-
tivity and the new theories of poetry which prompted Williams to suggest
the collaborative project. According to Weaver the book which had a most
profound influence upon Williams, and which he and Riordan discussed,
was Charles Proteus Steinmetz’s Four Lectures on Relativity and Space (1923).
Steinmetz offers a practical illustration of the relative dimensions of spa-
tial form and temporal duration by asking the reader to imagine himself
outside, and an aquaintance inside, a stationary train. While the train is
stationary, their measurements of its length will be the same, but when the
train moves the measurement of it by the observer will change, whereas the
passengers’ measurement will remain consistent with its stationary length.
Weaver comments:
If the poet was analogous to the person riding the train and the reader
analogous to the observer beside the track, it was clear that according to
the theory of relativity the length of track (the line of verse) and the
The Poet in the Poem 67
without invention
nothing lies under the witch-hazel
bush
reader into a double (twofold) encounter with the language itself and with
the world both created and reflected by the language. The two continua
are not parallel or even complementary, but they are indissoluble:
are like the words of the poem. They are not the presence of the mice, nor
even a representation of their presence. They are an imprint of their exis-
tence. And in the same way the placing of
overhanging
appear
which paradoxically ‘appears’ following the line which tells us that it ‘will
not’, are the imprints of William Carlos Williams. It is impossible to deal
with the graphic structures of this poem in the way that we are accustomed
to naturalize acoustic patterns as contributory elements to an ideational,
referential meaning. They are not mimetic in the conventional sense, but
they succeed in granting us access to the presence of Williams working
within the materiality of language. We know what he means by ‘the line
will never again take on its ancient divisions,’ and we can also see him as
‘inventor’ disposing the actual ‘lines’ and ‘divisions’ of the printed text.
In the same way we know that Milton is referring both to his own pre-
linguistic experience of blindness yet inscribing his presence within the
structure which has the grapheme ‘Day’ return, not to him, but to the
beginning of the next line.
The relation between the ideational and the referential functions of lan-
guage points us towards the real meaning of formal ‘relativity’. In the tra-
ditional model of poet-text-reader the communicative ideal is founded upon
speech as guaranteeing the co-presence of poet-speaker and addressee.
The text is ephemeral, a medium, a method of transference. I would argue
that this model compromises the ideal of experiential sharing in just the
same way that we have been taught, unjustly, to regard writing as the
source of uncertainty, fragmentation and betrayal. The acoustic message
is almost immediately dispersed among the expectations, preconditions
and intertextual residues that exist in the mind of the hearer. But in the
The Poet in the Poem 71
silent contemplation of the text we find ourselves locked into the poet’s
struggle with the medium and the message. The spoken pattern is still
there, but it is no longer something that can be transcended by our specu-
lative notions of what brought it into existence. We see it being brought
into existence as we follow the hand of the poet across the traps, indeci-
sions and perceptual uncertainties that will be frozen into the graphic for-
mat of the text. We will never know precisely what the poet felt or what the
poet means, but, to adapt Weaver’s analogy, we can see the person on the
train. The train, like spoken language, will leave the station and the author
will go with it, but the poetic line is both present and absent. We hear it
and it disappears, but when we both hear it and see it we experience the
relativistic co-presence of an event and a permanently inscribed record of
that event.
Milton, Wordsworth and Williams create in their poetry a series of effects
that criticism finds difficult to accommodate even within the apparently
unbounded regions of post-structuralism. Derrida has turned the speech-
writing relationship into an interpretative minefield. In Of Grammatology he
quotes Hegel: ‘The visible language is related only as a sign to the audible
language; intelligence expresses itself immediately and unconditionally
through speech’ and comments: ‘What writing itself in its non-phonetic
moment, betrays, is life. It menaces at once, the breath, the spirit, and his-
tory as the spirit’s relationship with itself (p. 25). Later, in the third chap-
ter, he postulates a ‘necessary decentring’, a ‘dislocation of the founding
categories of language, through access to another system linking speech
and writing’. This system is not philosophic but poetic. ‘This is the mean-
ing of the work of Fenellosa [sic] whose influence upon Ezra Pound and
his poetics is well known: this irreducibly graphic poetics was, with that of
Mallarmé, the first break in the most entrenched western tradition’ (p. 92).
He is wrong on several points. Writing might well menace the breath, the
spirit, but in the hands of certain poets – two of them writing long before
the modernist ‘break’ – it can also unite us with, rather than betray, the
‘life’ of the poet. As we shall find in the following chapter the early pro-
ponents of free verse shared, and feared, Derrida’s conception of graphic
poetics as ‘irreducible’ and it would require Williams and cummings to
prove otherwise.
Derrida’s inaccuracies have been perpetuated even by those who are
uncomfortable with his theoretical legacy. Denis Donoghue in Ferocious
Alphabets calls post-structuralists graphireaders: ‘From GREEK graphos,
writing. Hence the graphireader deals with writing as such and does not
think of it as transcribing an event properly construed as vocal or audible.’
72 Graphic Poetics
Visual form, unlike most other genres and techniques of poetic writing,
lacks a discernible aesthetic or cultural context. The conditions for its
emergence in the verse of Milton and Wordsworth were created by a series
of accidents and largely unplanned mutations of techniques: they found
themselves working at the interface between a familiar formula for poetic
design, the iambic pentameter, and the largely uncharted compositional
territory of a line that can shift between the acoustic and graphic dimen-
sions of signification. This chapter will provide a more detailed examina-
tion of the growth of visual technique within and beyond the objectives
and conventions of the early free-verse poets. It is all too easy to associate
the visual poem with modernism, but as we shall see, the verse of its two
most prolific practitioners, cummings and Williams, involved them in a
rejection of a number of the major ideals and assumptions at the heart of
the Imagist manifesto. We have already seen how visual form can provide
us with an unprecedented counterpart to the regular acoustic double pat-
tern, and, paradoxically, cummings and Williams succeeded in returning
the free-verse revolution to a condition of self-conscious formalism that it
had attempted to shake off. But in their deployment of silent poetics they
also invested free verse with something it had previously lacked – a sense
of the medium and its conventions as embodying a complex formal and
aesthetic design, something that both poet and reader must control and
negotiate in order to achieve a point of contact.
subtitled it an ‘Ars Poetica’ and Donald Davie has compared it with Sidney’s
Apologie, Wordsworth’s Preface to Lyrical Ballads and Shelley’s Defence of Poetry
(Davie, 1955, p. 33). I shall argue that, although the essay had very little dir-
ect influence upon the early writers of free verse, it foregrounds a paradox
of formal aesthetics and interpretation which remains unresolved.
Fenollosa claimed that the Chinese written sign, the ideogram, was cap-
able of representing images, metaphors and natural processes in a way
which bypasses the systematic, successive protocols of Western language.
If, using Western language, we wish to convey the relationship between
two objects, the movements or even the attitude of one thing or person in
relation to another, our link points are provided by the grammatical struc-
tures in which verbs, adjectives and connectives enact a representation of
reality. Fenollosa regarded this form of expression and representation as
being limited and confined by its temporal, successive structure. The alter-
native offered by the ideogram would allow us to present the relationship
between the objects perceived not successively, but simultaneously, as sin-
gle acts of vision. In fact he offered the possibility of reconciling the func-
tional and representational polarity of Lessing’s model of poetry and the
visual arts. He demonstrates:
First stands the man on two legs. Second, his eye moves through space: a
bold figure represented by running legs under an eye, a modified pic-
ture of an eye, a modified picture of running legs but unforgettable once
you have seen it. Third stands the horse on his four legs.
The thought picture is not only called up by these signs as well as by
words but far more vividly and concretely. Legs belong to all three char-
acters: they are alive. The group holds something of the quality of a con-
tinuous moving picture . . . (p. 140)
Leaving aside for a moment the question of how spatial juxtaposition could
be adapted to the conventions of grammar, there is clearly a close cor-
respondence between Fenollosa’s aesthetic of representing the complex
interrelationships of the prelinguistic world and the objectives of the early
Imagists:
Each of these statements posits the presence of the poet and a phenomenon
which is clearly not the poem as a material artefact, but more its condition
as a transparent medium which grants both poet and reader access to the
prelinguistic ‘thing’ or ‘image’. In one sense, then, it is possible to under-
stand why the ideogram presented such attractive possibilities to Pound
since, as Fenollosa argues, it presents us with a fusion of spatial and tem-
poral events which Western language submits to the deterministic and lim-
iting conventions of succession and linearity; in the ideogram the message
seems almost to transcend the medium. But at the same time the ideogram
is a representational picture. It might bypass the restrictive conventions of
language, but it also displaces the presence and individuality of its creator.
Here we face the paradox: spoken language is the ultimate guarantee of
the presence and sincerity of the poet, yet as Fenollosa implies, the only
means by which the poet can realize the ideal of representing the multidi-
mensional continuum of external reality is by recourse to the silent, visual
medium which can only operate effectively in his absence.
It could be argued that cummings’s falling leaf is the nearest that
Western language can come to a realization of Fenollosa’s notion of the
‘transparency of the moving picture’. Indeed, our experience of actually
seeing the leaf falling could almost be a response to Fenollosa’s example of
how the ideogrammic representation of ‘Man Sees Horse’ allows us to per-
ceive a multidimensional state of presence and movement. But cummings’s
method of dispersing and fragmenting the continuities of successive, spo-
ken language – a technique which first emerged in his volume Tulips and
Chimneys (1923) – is a representational process to which the early apolo-
gists for free verse were obsessively opposed.
One notes the insistent, almost urgent, tightening of Amy Lowell’s prose
style when she comes to consider the relation between the formal techni-
calities of free verse and its aesthetic enactment as speech:
The subtext is clear enough. The ‘rules and forms’ of traditionalism are in
alliance with the ‘written art’, and it is only through the opposing alliance
76 Graphic Poetics
of the ‘spoken’ with ‘the vision in a man’s soul’ that verse will realize its
objective of formal transparency.
The notion of the written text as a temporary record of the living voice
is given a somewhat exaggerated priority by T. E. Hulme:
It would be different if poetry, like acting and dancing, were one of the
arts of which no record can be kept, and which must be repeated for
each generation. The actor has not to feel the competition of the dead as
the poet has. Personally I am of course in favour of the complete destruc-
tion of all verse more than twenty years old.2
What Hulme means is that the spoken poem, like the theatrical perform-
ance or the dance, is capable of challenging ‘the competition of the dead’
by creating a fusion of living presence and representational immediacy.
The written poem is complicit in the displacement or ‘death’ of the poet by
the enduring artefact. And we should note the close relationship between
Hulme’s creative impulse and Jakobson’s interpretative premise of the ‘dis-
appearance’ of the phonic integers.
The correspondences between spoken performance, presence and for-
mal transparency underpin Lowell’s and Monroe’s reliance upon the
musical analogy as a formal validation of free verse, and again we find con-
nections between these arguments and the conjectures of Rice, Walker and
Steele in the eighteenth century. Lowell located the origin of the free-verse
cadence in ‘the rhythmic curve . . . corresponding roughly to the neces-
sity of breathing’. She might have been paraphrasing Joshua Steele ‘Our
breathing, the beating of our pulse, and our movements in walking, make
the division of time by pointed and regular cadences familiar and natural to
us’ (p. 20). Lowell continues this natural analogy and relates the organic
structure of the poem to the prelinguistic rhythm of the body by claiming
that the formal conventions of poetry – the foot, the line and the strophe –
are determined not by abstract formulae but by their more instinctive rela-
tion with the movement of walking, and concludes that the ‘poem must be
rounded and recurring as the circular swing of the balanced pendulum’.3
Steele stated that he had based his methodology of analysis ‘neither on
hypothesis nor on antient authorities’, but ‘by actual experiment – by a
pendulum or by my steps’ (p. 20).
Harriet Monroe on ‘Dr. Patterson’s Researches’ similarly locates the
rhythmic movement of the poem as corresponding to the movement of
the body, ‘every object moves rhythmically. . . . All life is governed by heart
beats, and the arts are man’s effort to respond to the universal impulse, his
Modernism: Two Versions of Free Verse 77
effort to create movement in time, or to mark off colour rhythms and space
rhythms in patterns which suggest that movement’ (p. 285).
It would seem that free verse should incorporate the multidimensional
immediacy of the visual image, but at the same time transcend the mater-
ial presence of the artefact in order to guarantee the living presence of the
poet/speaker. In a footnote to his edition of Fenollosa’s essay Pound tells of
how the sculptor Gaudier-Brzeska was able to naturalize ideograms without
the assistance of their linguistic counterparts, but Pound cautiously avoids
any reference to the fact that his friend can only experience this phenom-
enon because the ideogram bears a closer resemblance to representational
art, which operates in the absence of its creator, than it does to spoken per-
formance. The two representational media of Lessing’s formulation would
seem to remain irreconcilable, but T. E. Hulme in his ‘Lecture on Modern
Poetry’ comes closest to offering a theoretical point of closure between the
auditory allegiances of the free-verse theorists and the silent materiality of
visual art.
the procedure of the new visual art is just the contrary. It depends for
its effect not on a kind of half sleep produced, but on arresting the
attention, so much that the succession of visual images should exhaust
one. . . . This material, the υλη of Aristotle, is image and not sound. It
builds up a plastic image which it hands over to the reader, whereas the
78 Graphic Poetics
*
Her skirt lifted as a dark mist
From the columns of amethyst.
*
Sounds fluttered,
like bats in the dusk.
*
The flounced edge of skirt,
recoiling like waves off a cliff.
Ficke to Attridge (see Chapter 2), we can identify a belief in the simultan-
eous register of ‘two shades of stressing’ within the poetic line. But Lowell
and Pound (the latter in ‘A Few Don’ts by an Imagist’, 1913) argued that
the only type of counterpoint possible was when a word, phrase or cadence
was held in the mind of the reader to be superimposed or contrasted with
a different unit following it in the temporal sequence. Lowell:
Now of course, poetry cannot make use of more than one word at a time.
But it was possible to leave a photograph of another word on the mind
which would be to some extent held while a new word was being accepted.
In that way, the mind would seem to have received two words at once.
From words, go on to sentences. (‘Some Musical Analogies . . .’, p. 154)
Pound:
In this model of free verse each line would function like a component of
the ideogram, offering the listener discrete units of linguistic structure
which, when superimposed upon each other in the listener’s mind, would
correspond to the effect of simultaneous visual synthesis and fusion. As
Hulme puts it, ‘Thought is prior to language and consists in the simul-
taneous presentation of two different images’ (in Jones, p. 32). What he
implies by this is that the material artefact of the poem is transitory and
that the long sought-after fusion of communication and experience takes
place after it has been read or heard. Jakobson states the case more pre-
cisely: ‘With regard to speech, simultaneous synthesis is a transposition of
a sequential event into a synchronous structure, whereas in the perception
of paintings such a synthesis is the nearest phenomenological approxima-
tion to the picture under contemplation’ (1987, p. 471).
A problem emerges when we compare this communicative model with
the protocols of phonic naturalization considered in Chapter 3. For the
memory-based concept of progressive and retentive reading to be valid we
must accept that the process of understanding free verse, particularly in its
early Imagist manifestations, involves two separate cognitive stages. First,
each line, cadence, phrase, will register as a separate unit; second, our
interpretative faculty will seek out not a pattern of continuity across each
80 Graphic Poetics
The Change
If we select free verse poems at random from the anthologies and individ-
ual volumes which appeared during the first two decades of this century
we will become aware of a structural common denominator. Poems such
as Pound’s ‘The Return’ are conspicuous because of their rarity, and in
the vast majority of early free-verse writing the space which divides one
line from another represents an alliance between the conventional rhet-
orical pause and the less easily categorizable notion of the fissure which
allows the reader to discern separate thematic keynotes. These pauses/
line divisions create the effect of listening, not to the poet’s success in
marrying his intended meaning with a predetermined abstract formula,
but to the more instinctive compositional phenomenon of thought and
82 Graphic Poetics
Apart from the opening line, which establishes the sea as the subject, it
would be possible to rearrange the lineal order of the poem without doing
much damage to its tenuous framework of continuities. Patterson clas-
sified it as ‘spaced prose’ because he and Lowell were unable to locate
any form of persistent metrical pattern, but there are very few pieces of
prose in which it is possible to dislocate the progressive framework of
sense. Conrad Aiken, who reviewed the collection Some Imagist Poets 1915,
in which ‘Oread’ appeared, observed of the whole group: ‘Of organic
movement there is practically none.’ What Aiken means is that there is no
intrinsic structural mechanism which governs what he refers to as the
‘movement’ of theme and image, and as Gross was later to suggest, it is the
conditioned expectation of such a mechanism which allows or obliges the
reader to impose it.
‘Oread’ and ‘In a Station of the Metro’ are extreme examples of struc-
tural discontinuity, but even with those poems in which the grammatical
framework does create a successive interplay of themes from line to line
the link-words tend to operate within each unit rather than as active deter-
minants of what is to follow. It is virtually impossible to find a free verse
poem written before the 1920s in which a verb, adjective, pronoun, con-
nective, predicate or preposition is left isolated while the eye of the reader
moves on to connect this with the message of the succeeding line. There
are two reasons for this, and both relate to the uneasy relation between
the ideal of ideogrammic immediacy and the spoken form as a guaran-
tee of presence. First, the essentially Miltonic effect of enjambment, where
the movement of sense is literally ‘drawn out’ from the static condition of
Modernism: Two Versions of Free Verse 83
the line, draws the reader’s attention as much to the material status of the
poem as it does to the prelinguistic experience which the words represent,
and such an emphasis upon the structure of the medium rather than the
message was an anathema to the Imagist programme. Secondly, the sense
of discontinuity created by the relative isolation of one line from another
succeeds in giving the impression that we are hearing not a contrived and
structurally self-contained artefact, but a recreation of the original, uncer-
tain process of impression and thought becoming language. The following
is from Richard Aldington’s sequence ‘Epigrams’ (Some Imagist Poets 1915,
reprinted in Jones, 1972):
October
Were it not for the sense of thematic linkage granted by ‘For lack of’
and ‘Become like’, the poem would closely resemble ‘In a Station of the
Metro’, and a similar framework of naturalization is invited. The reader
is prompted to substantiate the tenuous metaphoric relations between
autumn, the draining of life from the natural world and the poet’s cryp-
tic musings on the state of his own relationship. Again we are faced
with an uneasy notion of our interpretative instinct prompting us to
intervene, to clarify something that the poet intended as fragmentary
and spontaneous. We might, at least theoretically, appreciate how the
discrete images of leaves, blood and human intimacy become superim-
posed upon one another to create the mental equivalent of the ideo-
gram, but a more powerful interpretative reflex urges us to impose upon
the poem a naturalized paraphrase of something like ‘the silver beech
leaves are a painful reminder that bloodless formality has replaced our
once natural intimacy.’ Aldington’s use of each line not as a concession
to the abstract determinants of form but as a record of a series of very
loosely connected impressions and feelings, places the reader in the
rather paradoxical situation of someone who wants to understand. The
spoken fragments enter the communicative circuit only to be supple-
mented and then effectively displaced by a prosaic formalization of what
they seem to mean.
84 Graphic Poetics
Spring and All and Tulips and Chimneys succeed in reinstalling the material-
ity of the text between poet and listener. Kenner would find it difficult to
perform a similar naturalization of the most striking poems in these collec-
tions because a significant element of their ‘meaning’ is literally inscribed
in their graphic presence as words on the page.
As I have argued, the irregular rhythmic pattern of speech, or its more
formalized counterpart in prose, is regarded by most critics as the flexible
dimension of the traditional double pattern which is, so they argue, dis-
cernible as a counterpoint to the regularity of the metrical deep structure.
Williams and cummings construct a variety of relationships between spo-
ken irregularity and formal structure, but they do so both by taking poetic
writing a stage beyond the audible patterns of regular verse, and, perhaps
more significantly, by displacing the procedures of their modernist con-
temporaries. Both poets maintain the fragmented immediacy of Imagist
writing, but at the same time they cause the reader to be aware of the per-
manence of the medium. To place their achievement within its proper con-
text we must consider an intra-aesthetic maxim which predates Lessing by
almost two millennia and which has attained equal status as a theoretical
debating point. Plutarch attributed to Simonides of Ceos the distinction
between painting as ‘mute poetry’ and poetry as a ‘speaking picture’. The
intrinsic contradiction of this polarity has attracted as much attention as
its somewhat limited value as a theoretical framework, because it attributes
86 Graphic Poetics
to each medium the very qualities whose absence, as Lessing argued, rep-
resents their essential difference – if a picture could speak, it would no
longer be a picture, and if poetic language was soundless, then it could no
longer be language. But for all its irritating circularity, Simonides’ distinc-
tion does succeed in foregrounding a number of sensory priorities which
rest, often unacknowledged, beneath apparently straightforward aesthetic
arguments. Defending the visual arts, Leonardo pointed out that ‘if you
call painting mute poetry, poetry can also be called blind painting’. What
he implies but does not clarify is that the physical, visual image created
by poetry exists only in the mind of the reader, who is able to decode the
referential system and transpose it with the memory of an iconic pres-
ence. Thus the means by which the linear, temporal medium of language
can grant us access to spatial images must be ideational, a function of the
reprocessing faculty of the reader, which operates as the link point between
temporal speech and mental picture. So, in an important sense, the early
free-versifiers, in their insistence upon the ephemeral nature of the spoken
text, were reiterating Leonardo’s claim that poetry must be ‘blind’: our
ability to return to, to contemplate the visual materiality of the medium
would necessarily delay and distort the process of conversion from signifier
to image, symbol to icon. Williams and cummings maintain an uneasy but
extremely productive interplay between the ideational effects generated by
the poem and the static presence of the poem itself, as both an arbitrary
linguistic representation and a concrete picture of its meaning. The follow-
ing is section III of cummings’s ‘Impressions’:
fin
-i-
tes
i
-mal-
ly devours
darkness the
hungry star
which
will e
Modernism: Two Versions of Free Verse 87
-ven
tu-
al
-ly jiggle
the bait of
dawn and be jerked
into
(t
into a stale shriek
like an alarm clock)
In Tulips and Chimneys cummings has not yet reached the point at which
the silent, visual dimension of the poem’s signifying mechanism effect-
ively displaces its successive oral pattern, but the framework of conflict is
already in place.
We could read this poem aloud and interpret the printed fragmenta-
tion of ‘infinitesimally’, ‘eventually’ and ‘burst’ as directions to slow and
uncertain vocalization. Heard as such it would closely resemble the impres-
sionistic fragments by Aldington and Hulme. The impersonal objects are
subtly assimilated by the speech pattern into a series of subjective, meta-
phoric relations between light, darkness, eating, fishing, waking, alarm
clocks. . . . The directions to vary the timing of the vocal performance
merely reinforce the impression that we are listening to the poet com-
bining impression with thought. But unlike its Imagist predecessors, this
poem refuses to disappear. We cannot help noticing that the lower case ‘i’
which announces the lyrical presence of e. e. cummings in the first line re-
emerges in the broken structure of ‘infinitesimally’, but we cannot invoke
the protocols of phonic naturalization because, the ‘i’s chosen for isola-
tion are phonemically different from the ‘i’ which begins the poem. We
can see a pattern that we cannot hear. The poet is both within the per-
manent, graphic language which records his experience and absent from
its ephemeral, spoken counterpart. cummings, like the phonocentrists of
the anthologies, is aware that the process of articulating an experience
involves a form of surrender to linguistic patterns which bear no organic or
88 Graphic Poetics
natural resemblance to it, but rather than displace this arbitrary medium,
he chooses to incorporate it as part of the communicative experience. The
words do not overreach the boundaries between life and art to become
things, but they become an element of the perceptual experience rather
than merely a disposable means of communicating it. The ideational image
granted after hearing Aldington’s or Hulme’s poems defuses the tension
between perception and linguistic representation; Kenner’s naturalization
of Pound operates almost as a release from the uncertain fragmentation
of the spoken utterance. But we can neither naturalize nor fully transcend
the linguistic material of cummings’s poem. We can of course hear how
‘a shooting star Burst into a stale shriek like an alarm clock,’ and we can
reflect upon how the image of the star transforms itself metaphorically into
a rather mundane and disappointing experience of surprise. We might
even consider the whole poem as a dream from which the poet is suddenly
jolted into consciousness. But when we also see the poem the word ‘Burst’
registers not only as a successive link-point between two figurative struc-
tures but as a static picture of cummings’s experience. The two opening
graphemic components of s, t, a, r, are literally detached
Bur s
(t
to become reunited in s, t, a, 1, e.
It could not be claimed that all of the verse in Tulips and Chimneys creates
such a complex interplay between the graphic materiality of language and
its referential function, but the effect which stays in the mind after read-
ing through the collection is of having seen and heard the verse, of having
experienced two cognitive dimensions of understanding which do not dis-
place one another, but which at the same time do not maintain the paral-
lelism of the auditory and the ocular that is found in most poetry of the
innovatory decade which preceded it. His most perverse disorientations of
expectation and effect occur in the sonnets, where he forces together the
tightest and most abstract formal pattern of the English poetic canon with
the demotic informalities of American speech. In number IV of ‘Sonnets-
Realities’ we find an account of visiting Dick Mid’s brothel negotiating its
way through the rhyme scheme, if not the metrical pattern, of the sonnet:
When we hear this poem our attention is committed to following the stark
visualization of the madam, culminating in a bizarre representation of her
‘accent’. The rhyme words are virtually displaced as accidents by the hesi-
tant yet powerfully evocative flow of the language. The ‘realities’ of spoken
informality almost succeed in marginalizing the diagram of abstract form,
and it is only when we also see the familiar shadow of a rhyme scheme sig-
nalling its presence at the end of the printed lines that the peculiarity of
the exercise becomes most striking. It is only then that we begin to ponder
the nagging inconsistency of the ninth line – ‘tablets of perspiration erectly
sitting’ – which refuses to fit into the rhyming pattern. It fits in well enough
with the speech pattern, because when we hear the poem the rhymes hardly
register at all. It is almost as though cummings has deliberately inserted
the line as a reminder that what we see is not always what we hear. The plan
of the poem’s structure which remains in the mind after hearing it is just as
likely to foreground the internal off-rhyme pattern of ‘tumbling’ ‘clicking’
‘sitting’ ‘trickling’ as it is to register the equally dissonant correspondences
of line endings at ‘how/hair’ and ‘sow-/eyes’, ‘door’ and ‘colour’. It becomes
almost impossible to distinguish the ‘natural’ music of speech from the
abstract formal pattern of the sonnet, except of course when our eye sig-
nals that we should look for something that might not become apparent to
the ear, and it is at the line ending with ‘sitting’ that the contrast between
the two dimensions of reading becomes apparent.
The sonnet as an abstract formula has offered a similar challenge to
Williams, Gavin Ewart, Robert Lowell and Geoffrey Hill (see pp. 172–4)
and, in each case we find that the key to our understanding of the tension
between pattern evoked and pattern submerged lies in our ability to both
see and hear the poems. In the context of cummings’s and Williams’s
1923 collections we should recognize that this tendency to conjure up
90 Graphic Poetics
John Hollander, in his essay on visual form, ‘The Poem in the Eye’, observed
that the title poem of Spring and All is
I feel that he overstates his case because the poem is both ‘shaped’ and
‘incanted’. It resembles cummings’s sonnet in that the silent reader operates
as an axis between the movement of the spoken form and the visual stasis of
its graphic structure. The opening two lines could stand as discrete units:
They register as completed images, until the eye of the reader transforms
the static, substantive sense of ‘blue’ into an adjectival dependence upon
the ‘mottled clouds’ of the next line. In one sense this effect could be
regarded as the hesitant, successive pattern mirroring the equally gradual
process of impression being transposed into language – a process more
vividly enacted by two instances ‘the’ detached from ‘northeast’ and ‘waste
of broad, muddy fields’. But the poem is also forcing the reader to dis-
tinguish between the unstructured formulations of expression and the
devices of art. The shape of the poem does not merely reflect the hesitan-
cies of unplanned speech; there is also evidence that in, literally, writing
the poem the poet has in mind a secondary pattern of an art form created
from the static material of the language.
The colloquial, localized reference to the ‘contagious hospital’ signals
a degree of idiomatic informality which at one point enters a state of con-
flict with the poem’s status as a formal artefact. When the persona contem-
plates the
small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines
‘Them leafless vines’ echoes the earthy and ambiguous title of ‘Spring and
All’. One oral reading of the poem would convey this rough colloquialism,
but when also read with the eye this effect is both preserved and comple-
mented by a poised, precise visual juxtaposition which recalls ‘In a Station
of the Metro’:
Unless it be marriage
perhaps
with a dash of Indian blood
for itself, not as a symbol of nature but a part, cognizant of the whole –
aware – civilised’ (p. 189). Later in the sequence he proclaims a poetic alle-
giance not to music – which he claims that poets can write about but not
imitate – but with the visual arts. At one point he alludes, without acknow-
ledgement, to an apocryphal story used to support Simonides’ speaking
picture figure – that Zeuxis had painted grapes so real that birds had tried
to eat them – and relocates this in the pre-Impressionist, premodernist trad-
ition of Holbein. He does not doubt that near-transparency is possible in
the visual arts, but it is the consequent displacement of the artefact to which
he objects: ‘But all the while the picture escaped notice. Or if one noticed
it was for the most part because one could see “the birds pecking at the
grapes” in it’ (p. 199). Williams goes on to question the value of such ‘rep-
resentations’ when outside the window real birds can be seen eating real
grapes. The alternative involves the promotion of the aesthetic medium to
the status of something which not only reflects but literally becomes part of
the perceptual experience:
Thus perspective and clever drawing kept the picture continually under
cover of the ‘beautiful illusion’ until today, when even Anatole France
trips saying: ‘Art – all lies!’ – today when we are beginning to redis-
cover the truth that in great works of the imagination A CREATIVE
FORCE IS SHOWN AT WORK MAKING OBJECTS WHICH ALONE
COMPLETE SCIENCE AND ALLOW INTELLIGENCE TO SURVIVE
his picture lives anew. It lives as only pictures can: by their power TO
ESCAPE ILLUSION and stand between man and nature . . . now works of
art cannot be left in this category of France’s ‘lie’, they must be real, not
‘realism’ but reality itself . . . (p. 204)
Bur s
(t
Poems as Pictures
form which they call Anacreon’s egge’. Puttenham had come across these
‘geometricall figures’ in Italy, from ‘a certaine gent who has travelled in the
Oriental parts of the world’. The principal distinction between Puttenham’s
mysteriously acquired shapes and those of the Greek Anthology is that the
former are abstract representations of ‘lozenges’, ‘squares’, ‘tapers’ and ‘cyl-
inders’, whereas the most popular and widely debated forms of the Anthology
are iconic representations of natural phenomena or manufactured artefacts,
the best known being the wings and the axe. Puttenham’s shift in emphasis
from the iconic to the abstract is due more to his objective of assimilating
the shaped form to the indigenous conventions of English poetry than it is to
his acquaintance with ‘a certaine gent’. The axes, wheels, altars and wings of
the Anthology make appropriate concessions to Greek quantitative measures,
but so extreme are the variations in line length in these iconic ‘pictures’
that their audible form is effectively surrendered to the dominant visual
image. But with rhyme, which Puttenham and the majority of his contem-
poraries conceded was a necessary component of English poetic form, the
sound structure offers itself as a supplement to the graphic visual dimension
of the text. What Puttenham attempted to do was to promote the ‘speak-
ing picture’, and he emphasized the geometrical rather than the directly
iconic, representational shape of these artefacts in order to create an inter-
aesthetic middle ground in which the symbolic function of the language
and the iconic function of visual art are both present, but in which neither
assumes the dominant signifying role. This objective was realized in the
work of Herbert, Herrick, Beaumont and Watson, where we find a consist-
ent degree of interdependence between the graphic shape, the auditory pat-
tern of metre and rhyme and the thematic, representational function of the
language. In Herbert’s ‘Easter Wings’, for instance, the prelinguistic shape
of the text differs very little from Puttenham’s abstract category of the ‘loz-
enge’, and the ‘wing’ image depends as much upon the title and the poem’s
thematic concentration upon the literal and spiritual notion of ascent as it
does upon a purely visual impression of the text. The objective of audible,
visual and ideational interdependence becomes clear in Puttenham’s reflec-
tions upon ‘The Pillar, Pillaster or Cillinder’. This is his description of how
the form should operate, both upon the auditory and ocular faculties of the
reader:
We might assume from this that Puttenham uses the term ‘figure’ as a
deliberate evocation of both its visual and linguistic usages. Figurative lan-
guage transposes one image with another to create a metaphoric resem-
blance, and the visual figuration of something in a picture or a diagram
reacts with the mental picture of what is represented. His claim is that we
can both see and hear different but crucially related dimensions of the
same effect. The influence of this inter-aesthetic objective becomes appar-
ent in Robert Herrick’s ‘The Pillar of Fame’:
The effect upon the reader is oddly similar to cummings’s falling leaf,
because the detachment yet mutual dependence of the visual and the aud-
ible dimensions of the poem make it difficult to describe the order in which
we become aware of its two levels of signification. As Puttenham states, the
Pillar ‘signifie[s], stay, support, rest, state, and magnificence’, and it does so
through two separate codes of signification. Herrick spins out the index-
ical, figurative resonance of the word ‘Pillar’ as something ‘Charmed and
enchanted so / As to withstand the blow’ and which ‘never shall / Decline or
waste at all’ while inscribing this linguistic pattern within an iconic prelin-
guistic representation. The most intense evocations of natural and human
impermanence occur in what Puttenham calls the ‘shaft’ of quatro-syllabic
couplets. Just as the compacted economy of syntax and metrical structure
add to a sense of tightening and strain, so we are also aware that, in archi-
tectural terms, the shaft is the point at which the load-bearing function of
the pillar is most concentrated; and the final couplet both closes the figura-
tive play of the linguistic pattern and is, literally, the ‘Firme and well fixt
100 Graphic Poetics
In the first half of each stanza, or more adventurously each ‘bird’, the lines
become shorter by two syllables successively, a contraction that we can
apprehend aurally as the gap between each rhyme word closes to a point at
which we eventually encounter two consecutive disyllabic lines. Then the
opposite occurs with the lines gradually expanding from two syllables until
we are returned to a pentameter. It would not be an over-interpretation
to aver that Herbert here attempts to replicate in sound two prelinguistic
visual effects; the shape of birds with their bodies in slight proportion to
the size of their wings; and the very movement of the wings themselves, in
and out from the slim torso. Alongside his multidimensional performance
with his aviary subject and the notion of flight Herbert also uses shape as
a metaphor for the spiritual significance of Easter, a sense of faith first
contracting and then opening itself to the moment of revelation at the
death and resurrection of Christ. Neither Puttenham nor Herrick nor
Herbert would claim that language can transcend its referential condition
Poems as Pictures 101
and actually become a continuum of things and impressions, but they are
aware that the cognitive faculties of seeing and hearing separate represen-
tational codes can become enmeshed. They thus anticipate Williams and
cummings, in the sense that the movement of the linguistic pattern is in
contrast with the static and visual dimension of the artefact. There are, of
course, significant differences.
The first and most obvious distinction between the pattern poem and the
visual structure of free verse is that, in the former, the printed image invokes
a code of iconic signification which is quite different from the visual and
auditory codes of language: we might argue that ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’
plays upon a similar tension between stasis and movement, but we know
that the finished artefact does not look like a wheelbarrow. The closest
point of similarity between the two forms is in the role of the reader who,
in both instances, operates as the point of contact and, to a degree, of
naturalization between the ocular and acoustic dimensions of the text.
The reader of the pattern poem carries the static image of the artefact
with him through a sequential reading, and in the case of Herrick’s pillar
our linguistic reception of the clipped quatro-syllabic couplets is intensi-
fied by our awareness of their physical location within the spatial image.
Obviously the initial impression of the shape of a piece of blank or free verse
does not have a specific signifying function, but there is a similar, if often
unacknowledged, awareness of the way in which the graphic materiality of
language will interact with its referential function. In both forms the unit
which represents the axis, the meeting-point, between auditory and visual
perception, is the poetic line, and it is in the function of this phenomenon
that we can locate the genuine degree of their intertextual correspond-
ence and conflict. In the pattern poem the line is the stable building-block
which, defined by metre and rhyme, represents a discrete component of
sequential auditory structure, and it also operates as a graphic unit of the
visual image. There is no conflict between the visual and auditory materi-
ality of the line which might threaten its stability as the point of harmony
between the two compositional and cognitive dimensions, but with lines
whose structure in relation to the broader movement of rhythm and syntax
is shifting and provisional, the cognitive and representational dimensions
of what is seen and what is heard do indeed enter a state of conflict.
spoken and written dimensions of the text by printing the lozenges, ovals,
cylinders . . . as groups of black lines whose silhouettes represent geomet-
rical structures. Thus, we recognize that each line is sealed both by its audi-
tory signal and its graphic space, and that the genuine interplay between
these structures will take place within the figurative, referential meaning
of the poem. He adapts this technique to illustrate regular rhymed forms,
with the couplet represented as:
And if I set you downe an occular example: because ye may the better con-
ceive it. Likewise it so falleth out most times your occular proportion doeth
declare the nature of the audible: for if it please the ear well, the same
represented by delineation to the view pleaseth the eye well and e converse
and this is by a naturall sympathie, between ear and eye, and between
tunes and colours, even as there is the like betweene the other senses and
their objects of which it apperteineth not here to speake. (p. 70)
the ‘torture’ of ‘one word ten thousand ways’. By ‘one word’ he refers to
the self-imposed limitations of the form: in making ‘Easter Wings’ look
like wings, Herbert restricted the theme and the metaphoric range of the
poem to the interplay between the literal notions of flight and rising, and
their figurative counterparts in the attainment of spiritual purity and
the transcendence of our mortal condition. Dryden, Addison and the
majority of their contemporaries would, however, agree with Puttenham
that in conventional verse there should be a ‘naturall sympathie between
ear and eye’, and the form which offered a much more serious challenge
than the pattern poem to this ideal of balance was Miltonic blank verse.
Before Paradise Lost non-dramatic blank verse was a phenomenon just as
marginal and experimental as the shaped form. It did, of course, have a
substantial precedent in dramatic writing, but as Dryden and his early
seventeenth-century predecessors made clear, dramatic blank verse occu-
pied a grey area somewhere between poetry and rhythmic prose, and it
was not therefore subjected to the same prescriptive rules of sight and
sound as non-dramatic verse. It is significant that in Puttenham’s cata-
logue of diagrams blank verse is not mentioned; the only unrhymed forms
to be represented as black lines are classical, quantitative measures. The
reason for this is that English accentual metre was regarded as structure
which required rhyme to unite the silent, printed phenomenon with its
spoken form, and, as its eighteenth-century critics demonstrated, Milton’s
blank verse caused a disjunction, rather than a ‘sympathie’ between what
we see and what we hear. So, although the pattern poem represents an
early example of how the printed text can generate meaning separately
from the audible pattern, it imposed its own limitations in not allowing
the two codes of signification to enter a state of conflict: the interplay
between them was coherent and ‘sympathetic’. The ‘relativistic’ structure
of the poetic line as something which might register as very different
formal and signifying phenomena in the two realms of sight and sound
began with Paradise Lost. How then would Puttenham have represented
Miltonic blank verse in diagrammatic form? The question is not entirely
hypothetical, because one eighteenth-century critic, Peter Walkden Fogg,
revived Puttenham’s procedure in his Elementa Anglicana (1792–6) and
the results are intriguing.
Fogg reiterates Sheridan’s division of poetic language into Melody and
Harmony – the former being the sequential progress of sound and the
latter emerging from the more complex spatial interplay of cadences and
units – but he goes on to explore the question of why and how the mind
of the reader can both separate and reassemble the materiality and the
104 Graphic Poetics
Fogg comments: ‘Then the mind glances over the whole with a rapidity
that enhances the delight; and the more we suppose many other pro-
portions still unperceived’ (II, p. 199). His method is an extravagant
and endearingly bizarre extension of a number of eighteenth-century
critical perceptions. Lord Kames, Johnson and Hugh Blair all praised
the balance of order and diversity which could be achieved by allowing
Poems as Pictures 105
not to me returns
Day
and,
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement
They strain
forward to grasp ships
or even the sky itself that
bends down to be torn
S
The syntax is indeed interrupted by the visual breaks, but the visual for-
mat operates as score for a single univocal enactment of impression hesi-
tantly, uncertainly becoming language. It is the free verse counterpart to
Hayley’s couplets – no real conflict occurs between the picture of the poem
on the page and its temporal performance. Cushman cautiously avoids any
attempt to impose the black line ‘schemata’ upon such poems as ‘Spring
and All’. Had he done so he would have faced the same problem that Fogg
found with Milton – there are two patterns on the page and the diagram
can only reflect one. The black lines are useful in so far as they confirm
that the gaps and configurations on the page might not correspond with
conflicting patterns within the linguistic material; we will know that in
some poems something is going on behind them.
‘The Hunters in the Snow’ has drawn the attention of both Cushman and
Wendy Steiner:
The basic matrix of the sentence, when employed to describe the physical
relation between phenomena, is both prescriptive and limiting. If we were to
describe the position of a house and a tree in relation to the point of percep-
tion we could say, ‘The tree is in front of the house’ or ‘The house is behind
the tree.’ It might be argued that each of these grammatical structures are
consistent with the same ideational picture, but this is not quite the case. Our
placing of the tree or the house within the temporal structure of the sentence
will create a thematic priority which shifts our attention away from the object-
ive pre-representational structure and towards the mood, opinion or inclin-
ation of the perceiver/writer. If we were to draw a picture of the same scene
we could similarly give precedence to one or the other of the two phenom-
ena, but in this medium the hierarchy of perception is not determined by the
temporal order of the representational artefact. The tree and the house exist
in the same representational space, and although one of them might consti-
tute the thematic focus of the picture it can never remove itself from the sim-
ultaneous presence of the other. If we are to regard language as a temporal
medium this sense of perceptual simultaneity would seem to be impossible –
as Cushman observes of Williams’s poems: ‘We distinguish details in tem-
poral succession.’ But what Williams attempts to do is to bring together these
two representational experiences within the same medium. The sequence
icy mountains
in the background the return
from the hunt
visual artist and perceiver, but in linguistic form the communicative corres-
pondence is severely limited by more powerful and restrictive conventions
of construction and reception – temporality. When reading the ‘Hunters
in the Snow’ we can maintain an awareness of an ideational ‘mind’s-eye’
view of what it signifies but we are also continually aware of how the mater-
ial of signification causes us to engage directly with the textual artefact.
The passage of our eye across the page creates a double awareness of the
literal stasis and movement of the linguistic material and of the figurative,
descriptive pattern of stillness and agitation. ‘The return’ tells us what the
hunters are doing and also indicates the progress of our eye both to the
bottom left-hand ‘foreground’ of the painting and to the beginning of
the next line of the poem. The hunters are clearly moving ‘from the left’
and it is from this same direction that our eye follows the progress of the
language. Williams respects the arbitrary nature of both communicative
media and the participating role of the perceiver/reader in decoding their
respective patterns of signification. For this reason he refuses to subordin-
ate language to the temporal conventions of syntactic discreteness. Just as
our visual faculty will distinguish the relations between the different elem-
ents of the painting while acknowledging their simultaneous interrelation,
so we are never able to detach a single syntactic unit from those which sur-
round it. The women who tend the bonfire seem to
cluster
about it to the right beyond
yet as our eye moves back from ‘the right’ to the left of the poem we find
beyond
the hill is a pattern of skaters
We can establish the ‘correct’ syntactic pattern just as we can discern the
thematic hierarchies of the painting, but in both instances our shift in
interpretative focus carries with it a trace of some structural or thematic
element which can be isolated but never fully discarded. Significantly, the
only two lines in which structure and meaning are firmly balanced are
those which begin and end the poem, and which, like the frame of a paint-
ing, enclose and limit the interplay between the constituent elements of
the artefact and the perceptual faculties of the reader.
Williams inserts a number of subtle clues into these poems which attest
to his use of the line as a structural component which brings the successive
continuum of language closest to the juxtaposed elements of visual art. In
Poems as Pictures 111
‘The Parable of the Blind’ he touches upon the grim irony of a painting
whose occupants would never be able to contemplate the representation
of themselves. In regular poetry we might expect the poet to match such a
paradox by giving emphasis to the sound patterns of language. But Williams
foregrounds the silent dimension of poetic form, opening with a reminder
of his own first explicitly visual experiment, ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’:
in the composition shows a group and continues by ‘leading’ the eye of the
reader across the printed graphemes in a way that imitates the progress of
the beggars across the canvas:
of beggars leading
each other diagonally downward
We find ourselves tracing out a parallel movement of the material and ref-
erential functions to find this suddenly split as the ‘stumble’ into the bog
leads us out of the material structure towards an ideational picture.
We know of course that the beggars in the picture do not actually move,
but Williams succeeds in foregrounding the delicate interplay between
representation and interpretation by creating, within the medium which
should move, language, a synthesis of progress and stasis. We literally ‘read’
the printed poem:
diagonally downward
across
des-
titute
112 Graphic Poetics
The details [of a painting] which the eye takes in at a glance, he [the
poet] enumerates slowly one by one, and it often happens that, by the
time he has brought us to the last, we have forgotten the first. Yet from
these details we are to form a picture. When we look at an object the vari-
ous parts are always present to the eye. It can run over them again and
again. The ear, however, loses the details it has heard, unless memory
retains them. And if they be so retained, what pains and effort it costs to
recall their impressions in the proper order and with even the moderate
degree of rapidity necessary to the obtaining of a tolerable idea of the
whole . . . (pp. 110–1)
give priority to correspondences between the visual images and the words
that are symbols of things. As Cushman demonstrated, the presence of the
painting had established for him a perceptual hierarchy within the linguis-
tic constituents of the painting: ‘mountains, hunters, inn sign, bonfire’. In
‘The Corn Harvest’ Williams challenges the stability of this inter-aesthetic
relationship:
Summer!
the painting is organised
about a young
relaxed
from his morning labors
sprawled
in fact sleeping
unbuttoned
on his back
the women
have brought him his lunch
perhaps
a spot of wine
they gather gossiping
under a tree
whose shade
carelessly
he does not share the
resting
center of
their workaday world
right a group of women sit, eating, drinking and talking. One of them, while
still seated in the circle, has turned around and is either lifting something
from or placing something in a basket which occupies a point in front of the
tree exactly halfway between the sleeping man and the group. This series of
juxtapositions prompts a bewildering variety of interpretative possibilities.
Why is the man not seated with the women? Has he been invited to share,
or been excluded from, their food and drink? Is the placing of the basket an
accident which only appears to be a symbolic point of separation?
The series of possibilities, of unresolvable conflicts of circumstance, is
the result of juxtaposed visual images, and Williams recreates this mys-
tery of unfinalized relations by allowing individual linguistic units and
phrases to come adrift from the sequential determinism of syntax. The
single word
completely
the women
have brought his lunch
perhaps
a spot of wine
Painting Poetry
Space Time
Natural Signs Arbitrary (man-made) signs
Narrow Sphere Infinite Range
Imitation Expression
Body Mind
External Internal
Silent Eloquent
Beauty Sublimity
Eye Ear
Feminine Masculine
118 Graphic Poetics
57
mi (dreamlike) st
ve turns obv
ious t
os
trange
un
til o
urselve
s are
will be wor
120 Graphic Poetics
(magi
c
ally)
lds
The poem is ‘about’ the effect of mist upon perception and the imagin-
ation. Having made such a statement I must also acknowledge that I have
imposed a linear, temporal sequence of meanings upon a poem in which the
referential function of language (temporal) has been effectively displaced by
its material juxtapositions (spatial). We know that ‘mi (dreamlike) st’ means
something like ‘dreamlike mist’ but there is a fissure between the effects
created within the poem by its spatial non-temporal juxtapositions and the
necessity that such effects will be naturalized within the temporal metalan-
guage of criticism. However, there is also a structural connection between
the doubling of syntactic patterns in Miltonic blank verse, which cannot be
fully appreciated in a single univocal utterance, and cummings’s deployment
of written language as a grid of signifying relations. With cummings’s poem
the visual format, in practical terms, silences the performative dimension of
spoken language, yet maintains a memory of its function in poetic form: to
regard ‘turns/obv/ious/t/os/trange’ as meaningful at all we are placing it
within the same formal context as Milton’s ‘what must be/Worse’. And I shall
argue that in invoking the memory of conventional form cummings also car-
ries a sense of authorial presence into the materiality of the text.
Beyond Milton’s end of the scale we would find the work of the more
traditional eighteenth- and nineteenth-century blank-verse writers, where
the visual format is synchronized with the rhythmic and syntactic move-
ment of the univocal sequence – the visual text becomes the recording
instrument for the single pattern of the spoken medium. To broaden this
category even further we could exclude all forms of verse which create
no essential point of disruption between what is seen and what is heard.
Beyond cummings’s end of the scale there exists a whole genre of writing
which is generally categorized as concrete poetry.
Concrete Poetry
Here we enter territory in which discrimination, inclusion or exclusion,
becomes more problematic. How might shaped or concrete poems differ
sufficiently from cummings’s ‘57’ to merit exclusion from the scale? Edwin
The Sliding Scale 121
Morgan, a poet whose work includes both visual and regular forms, con-
tributed a statement on how concrete poetry should be perceived in rela-
tion to other genres to the catalogue of the 1965 ICA exhibition ‘Between
Poetry and Painting’:
In all poetry which is written down or printed, a part of the effect is bound
to be visual. Line-length, open, or close texture, long or short words, light
or heavy punctuation, use of capitals, exclamation marks, rhyme – all
these produce characteristic variations of effect and induce different reac-
tions in the viewer even before the viewer becomes in the strict sense a
reader. A page of Milton’s blank verse with its bristling and serried para-
graphs looks quite different from a page of Wordsworth’s, clear, open,
light, loose untormented. . . . The delicate cat-paw placing of words in
poems by William Carlos Williams, Zukofsky, Creeley, and Ronald Johnson
is halfway between being a guide to the ear and a pleasure to the eye.
A more committedly visual poetry like concrete is only emphasising and
developing an already existing visual component of aesthetic effect.
Concrete poems are therefore not in opposition to the spirit of poetry
unless we demand that poetry should be able to be read aloud, or unless
they move so far into the purely graphic or the mathematical that they are
no longer making their appeal through language as such. (pp. 69–70)
Morgan claims that concrete poetry exaggerates and makes explicit a form
of poetic appreciation which has existed, but has rarely been acknowl-
edged, in readings of such traditional forms as blank verse. We can iden-
tify the key to this reluctance in his reference to ‘the demand that poetry
should be read aloud’ – in other words our critical blindness to silent
poetics. Morgan would seem to be referring to verse which, like cum-
mings’s, stands at the edge of the sliding scale, ‘halfway between being a
guide to the ear and a pleasure to the eye’, verse which maintains some
allegiance to the double pattern of temporal and spatial effects. But what
of poems which move towards the ‘purely graphic’, which no longer make
their appeal through language as such? Morgan does not give examples,
but I shall propose a definition. Let us assume that ‘language as such’
means the conventions of composition and understanding which operate
in traditional linguistic discourses, including traditional poetry. To aban-
don these would not involve total exclusion of the materials of linguistic
communication – practically all concrete poems incorporate phenomena
which are recognizably linguistic, such as words, letters, typeface styles,
etc. – but it would involve the rejection of the combinative system through
122 Graphic Poetics
ping pong
ping pong ping
pong ping pong
ping pong
w w
d i
n n n
i d i d
w w
Similarly we might also argue that ‘ping pong’ extends this theme of the
paradoxical nature of language as an arbitrary representational system.
‘Ping pong’ is no more accurate a mimetic or onomatopoeic copy of the
sound of a bouncing ball than is ‘mioew’ a ‘record’ of the sound made by
a cat. Gomringer foregrounds, and to a degree parodies, this paradox of
mimesis by creating a kind of visual onomatopoeia where the signifiers seem
to be literally bouncing diagonally down the page before coming to a halt.
‘Wind’ also draws us into confrontation with the arbitrary nature of lan-
guage. The word w.i.n.d. can be ‘read’ along separate diagonal planes and
even along planes that are angular or curved. The ‘meaning’ of such effect
is presumably that in order to bring the arbitrary self-determined signifier
closer to our experience of its referent, we might demonstrate how the com-
ponents of this particular linguistic integer can be, literally, blown around.
What all three poems have in common is that they invite the reader to
relocate them within the kind of communicative circuit that they seek
to transcend. We are aware that the temporal-syntactic code of significa-
tion has been abandoned, but, as Gross demonstrated with Pound’s ‘In
a Station of the Metro’, when more than one unit of linguistic material,
even if they are only letters, are placed before us within a single arte-
fact, frame or parole, our instinct will cause us to find some connection
between them. And the system through which such connections will be
found or proposed is inevitably based upon our intuitive awareness of
the temporal–syntactic relation between the individual components of
language. In the ex-cathedra statements of concrete poets we find that
such a conflict rests uneasily with their aesthetic objectives. Between 1954
and 1960 Gomringer developed a theoretical counterpart to his own and
other concrete poems, based upon the notion of the constellation: ‘The
constellation is order by the poet. He determines the play-area, the field
of force and suggests its possibilities. The reader, the new reader, grasps
the idea of play and joins in’ (Solt, p. 67). But to ‘ join in’ with a field of
possibilities consisting of traces between linguistic signs means that we
will inevitably find it difficult to detach ourselves from the fundamental
normative structures that give these signs meaning. If we find connections
between two or three words we will invoke the arbitrary code of significa-
tion that makes language possible. This is unlike the kind of ‘play’ encour-
aged by patterns of similarity or distinction between colours, objects or
geometric designs, because words, no matter how far they seem detached
from systematic formality, will always signal an intention to say something,
to make a statement whose production and reception will involve a shared
awareness of that system.
124 Graphic Poetics
How do we reconcile the notion of an object that does not interpret exterior
objects with the fact that the material of this object must be drawn from the
very code whose function is arbitrary, referential and designed specifically
to interpret objects and feelings? I would argue that the only way to effect
such a reconciliation is by engaging with but not necessarily submitting to
the temporal-syntactic system that concretism seeks to transcend. Williams
succeeds in ‘appealing to non-verbal communication’ but he does so by
maintaining temporality (speech, syntax) alongside visual structure (silence,
juxtaposition). Superficially, there would seem to be similarities between the
concretist objectives and Williams’s fusions of the material and referential
functions of language, but these are far outweighed by the differences.
De Campos and Pignatari claim that it is possible to ‘create a specific lin-
guistic area – “verbivocovisual” – which shares the advantages of nonverbal
communication’ (Solt, p. 72). But in practice the sharing is unequal. The
system of cognitive and semiotic awareness that allows us to, as Gomringer
puts it, ‘play’ with these texts is essentially external to the poetic object.
With Gomringer’s three poems a tension exists between our expectation of
how language should work and our immediate experience of the artefact,
but this tension does not emerge from within the poems themselves – their
emphasis upon the spatial and the visual is effectively translated through
the syntactic/temporal basis of the reader’s broader contextual experience
of linguistic communication. With Williams, the conflict, while engaging
with, and often disrupting the expectations of the reader, operates within
the poem, whose effects are generated by the simultaneous presence of syn-
tax/temporality and an alternative pattern of visualism and juxtaposition.
In concrete poetry the interpretative focus has shifted from our awareness
of the poet as negotiating and controlling the phenomenon of arbitrary
textuality to the poet as having submitted to the autonomy of the text. The
poet-text-reader equation has reduced itself to reader and text.
This distinction is important because it presents us with interpretative
conditions and limitations which can identify a poem’s relation to the
The Sliding Scale 125
This then is the structure of the poem; its form is not reducible either to
analysis or explanation. Once the poem is in progress its temporal form
admits us to a world prior to the knowledge of which reason speaks . . .
(p. 106)
diagrams which trace out the eye movement of the reader as patterns of sig-
nification are identified and followed. All of these studies share a reliance
upon deep structure as a pattern that can be invoked to find connections
and sequences within the text, and their method testifies to the distinction
between concrete poetry and verse within the sliding scale. The latter will
create contrasting and sometimes contradictory patterns of meaning but
the axis between these will shift us back and forth between what we see and
what we hear. The reader/critic of concrete poetry can describe the distinct
patterns, but will not be able to move beyond this state of awareness to an
active engagement with a presence within the text on who will control the
perceptual focus between the sound and the space, the ideational pattern
and the graphic materiality of the language. In concrete poems there is
no centre of signification, only diffuse, divergent and juxtaposed patterns.
Poems within the sliding scale exhibit a temporal pattern, a movement
from beginning to end, whose progress will at various points be disrupted,
divided and broadened by its conflict with visualism.
In my view concrete poetry is less capable of achieving a productive and
innovative interface between the communicative medium and the physical
world than are its visualist counterparts within the sliding scale. The latter,
while apparently submitting themselves to the outer-textual conventions of
temporal syntax, are in fact inscribing a struggle between control and free-
dom. By incorporating and engaging with the phonocentric, temporal pat-
tern of meaning they are able to overreach it. Milton and Williams invest
their texts with a univocal spoken pattern and it is through this positioning
of a speaking presence that they are able to foreground the decentring of
visualism. Eve speaks, yet she communicates her multidimensional persona
only in silence. Williams comments upon Brueghel’s pictures, but his utter-
ances are continually challenged by the silent configurations of meaning.
It is possible to identify a subgenre of concrete poetry which acknowl-
edges and incorporates the primary structures of conventional verse, but
which, by various means, excludes itself from the sliding scale. Paul de
Vree’s ‘A rose is everywhere,’ Emmett Williams’s ‘Do You Remember’, Edwin
Morgan’s ‘The Computer’s First Christmas Card’, Ian Hamilton Finlay’s
‘Cathedral’ and Thomas A. Clark’s ‘River’2 all indicate to the reader that
the dominant pattern of signification will follow the conventional route
from top left to bottom right. They enter the ‘frame’ of the conventional
printed poem by arranging words in horizontal units whose termination
is governed neither by the size of the page nor by any other contingency
of typesetting, but they also share a tendency towards semantic/phone-
mic repetition or thematic circularity which effectively disappoints the
The Sliding Scale 127
a rose is everywhere
a rose
as a rose
For ever is
a rose
for ever everywhere
a rose
This poem could be read aloud, but such an emphasis upon its tem-
poral pattern would grant us only a minimal awareness of the internal
interweavings of surface and meaning. For instance the column consisting
of ‘a rose’ suggests the impenetrable solidity of the signifier which refuses
to become a constituent of discursive syntax. A tension exists between one
linguistic element which attempts to say something about the phenomen-
ology of ‘a rose’ and the graphic signifier whose positioning resists these
attempts, and seems at the ‘end’ of the poem to be falling away from,
escaping, the determinism of syntax. Similarities between this effect and
poems by Williams and cummings become evident, but it is also clear that
de Vree’s concession to discursive temporality is marginal. We know that a
statement about something is almost being made, but any understanding
of what this is or of its contextual origin is virtually forbidden by the self-
conscious openness of the text. We could very easily rearrange the lines of
this poem – ‘for ever everywhere’ could serve just as well as the opening
line and ‘is everywhere’ would be quite suitable as a conclusion. De Vree
has surrendered the purposive individuality of a statement to the multi-
plex patternings of textuality. Poems on the sliding scale will exploit text-
uality and the material of communication, but they leave the fingerprint
of individual intention: by changing the format of a sliding-scale poem we
would be altering a message rather than participating in the play of sig-
nification. Even with the general field of ostentatiously visual poetry it is
evident that the Concretists’ countenance much less attraction to the chal-
lenge, the craft of writing verse, than their Renaissance predecessors, the
pattern Poets. Herrick’s ‘The Pillar of Fame’ and Herbert’s ‘Easter Wings’
(see above, pp. 99–100) involve for both poets a considerable test of their
stylistic dexterity. Even if perceived only aurally each poem testifies to an
astute command of figurative language, metre and sound pattern, and
128 Graphic Poetics
would indeed compare favourably with the most celebrated pieces com-
prised of the baroque stanzaia structures so favoured in that period. The
fact that what we hear also describes on the page a pictorial representation
of key themes addressed in the text puts them beyond the standard classi-
fication of Pattern Poems as curiosities; they are complex, superbly crafted
poetic artefacts in their own right. Herbert’s ‘Our Life is Hid with Christ
in God’ is not strictly speaking a Pattern Poem but, self-evidently, it makes
use of the visual format as a counterpoint to linearity, and certainly invites
comparison with de Vree.
If, like ‘Easter Wings’, this were perceived aurally – or even from the
page, but without the italicized aids provided by Herbert – it would still
demand attention as a complex reflection upon the Christian notion of
a disjunction between the tactile physical world, available to our senses,
and another, spiritual dimension that might be intuited but is beyond rou-
tine perception. Its metrical and stylistic qualities are close to flawless, as
Herbert wraps in layers of metaphor the conundrum of how the faithful
might read signs of the spiritual world in its natural counterpart, begin-
ning with a figure from astronomy, the ‘double motion’ of the sun, and
opening into a contrast between the mutable ‘flesh’ of humanity and the
eternal spiritual presence of ‘Him’. Its theme, like many other pieces in the
so-called Metaphysical tradition, is the ever present question of the rela-
tion between the transient and the eternal, the search for an immutable
truth beneath the shifting surface of actuality. But unlike most of his peers
Herbert hides within the complex sound pattern of the poem a mysterious
thread of meaning: an unambiguous proclamation of faith sewn diagonally
through the visual text. It is a moment of visual mimesis; the affirmation
of spiritual and contentment is, like a moment of revelation, at once part
of and detached from the conceits and speculations of the text and indeed
The Sliding Scale 129
the world. His simultaneous use of the linear and the visual aspects of lan-
guage is more than a bravura display or an experiment with textuality; it
is at once a testament to his skill as a poetic craftsman and an elegant sub-
mission to the desire to seek immutable truth in the arbitary structure of
language. I would aver that few if any writers could have conceived of and
executed so subtly this fabric of devices, whereas de Vree’s piece is, by com-
parison, of questionable intrinsic merit. Substitute ‘a flower’ ‘a man’ even
‘a spoon’ (monosyllabic alternatives are almost limitless) for ‘a rose’ and
the significance, the weight, of the poem is hardly altered.
John Cage produced a sequence of so-called mesastic poems where, like
Herbert’s piece, a message is inscribed visually within the linear text. His
exercises are intriguing, but one cannot help but reflect that they could eas-
ily be imitated by anyone with a similar inclination to do so. For example:
he Jumps
with his back tO the audience
for all we know he maY be quietly weeping
or silently or both you just Can’t
tEll
The fact that, unlike Herbert, Cage’s linear text involves a structure-less,
impressionistic free verse ramble, with each line no more than a gratuitous
concession to convention means that little skill is required in wrapping it
around the vertical mesastic message: JAMES JOYCE. I could do it. I will:
This took me little more than ten minutes to write. It involved rather less
intellectual investment than a game of Scrabble – which in shape, at least,
it resembles – and as such it exposes Cage’s work as little more than a ges-
ture, invested with scant significance.
Consider the following by Ian Hamilton Finlay:
it
it is here
little
it
it is little
here
it
it was here
little
it
it is lost
This could, for those conversant with the mantras and formulae of post-
structuralism, prompt a lengthy discussion of the arbitrary nature of the sign,
the problematical relationship between presence (‘is’ and ‘here’), absence
(‘was’ and ‘lost’) and the marginal (‘little’), and their combined threat to
a secure notion of actuality (‘it’). Hamilton Finlay causes us to chase the
signs around the page, as we search for a secure linear syntagmatic chain,
and forces us adrift along other visual paths of meaning, to nowhere. Such
a straight-faced, charitable interpretation would, however, overlook the
undeniable fact that, like the pieces by de Vree and Cage, the composition
of this ‘poem’ required little effort or skill. Once the poet, even the vis-
ual poet, absents themselves completely from the complex demands of lin-
ear, orthodox language then they are doing little more than playing with
words, like pieces on the aforementioned Scrabble board. Poets within the
sliding scale – notably Milton, Wordsworth, Williams and indeed Herbert –
create a conflict of interests between language deployed in its orthodox,
univocal form and the function of the visual units. The Concretists are
essentially the poetic equivalent of those in the visual arts who, absurdly,
perpetuate the supposedly groundbreaking moment of Duchamp’s
urinal as a ‘work of art’. It was a gesture, an assertion of radicalism, but
even Duchamp treated it as something of a joke, for the simple reason
The Sliding Scale 131
o pr
gress verily thou art m
mentous superc
lossal hyperpr
digious etc i kn
w & if you d
n’t why g
to yonder s
called newsreel s
called theatre & with your
wn eyes beh
Id The
(The president The
president of The president
of the The) president of
w
i
n
g
a
b
aseball
There can be few poems in English which disrupt yet effectively con-
trol the reader’s codes of interpretation as skilfully as cummings’s ‘9’. Like
Herbert’s ‘Easter Wings’ and Herrick’s ‘The Pillar’ it sets an iconic, visual
image against a temporal sequence, but unlike the ‘symmetric’ of the pat-
tern poem the two codes are cunningly interwoven.
When read aloud, and without reference to its graphic identity, we encoun-
ter a mocking satirical presence which slips easily between parodic formality
and the familiar idioms of everyday speech. The opening verse paragraph,
with its combination of biblical grammar and modern hyperbole, is pure
pastiche from which emerges the more direct and personal voice of the imi-
tator: ‘i know and if you don’t’. This is the controlling presence of the poem
who goes on to invite the reader to ‘with your own eyes behold’ a bizarre
audio-collage. In this the ‘The President of the United States’ is gradually
introduced through a kind of drum roll of word-gathering. The tone is still
mocking and parodic, dragging the reader word by word towards the com-
pletion of a title which must be inscribed upon the consciousness of anyone
who has had the President introduced to them via the newsreel or the radio.
The concluding sequence is a splendid parody of 1930s political advertising;
the great leader is also a man of the people, and the grandeur of classical
precedent adapts comfortably to the throwing of a baseball.
Vocalized as such this amusing exercise in cynicism is only a sin-
gle dimension of the poem that cummings has, literally, written. When
reading the poem aloud to someone else we know, but we have no way
of informing them, that a vital component of the temporal sequence,
the letter ‘o’, is actually falling down the left-hand margin of the poem
to be picked up by the President and become the thing that it physically
resembles, the baseball. Nor can we inform the listener of how ‘throwing
a baseball’ curves across the page and thus resembles the throwing of a
baseball. The most astounding piece of synaesthetic craftsmanship occurs
in the ‘fanfare’ to ‘The President of the United States’. The title can be
read down each side of the figure; the whole structure is built upon an
incremental expansion (3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 words per line); the brackets exclude
134 Graphic Poetics
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
who
a)s w(e loo)k
upnowgath
PPEGORHRASS
eringint (o-
aThc):I
eA
!p:
S a
(r
rlvInG . gRrEaPsPhOs)
to
rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
, grasshopper;
As much can be learnt from the uneasy tone of this passage as from its
critical exegesis. Gross finds himself able to understand the poem yet he
is uncomfortable, even uncertain, about the means by which he is able to
reach his conclusion. His ability to disclose a sequential pattern of mean-
ing, a metatext, is clearly due to his awareness of the shadow of speech – the
poem can never be vocalized, but running through it is a presence which
controls and deploys its linguistic constituents. He is also aware that in
identifying this metatext he has moved beyond the conventional interpret-
ative perception of how form relates to meaning (‘I am unable to discover
what rationale lies behind the poem’s punctuation’). It could be argued
that it is equally difficult to ‘discover what rationale’ governs a form of
‘punctuation’ in which coincidences of sound are incorporated as a struc-
tural axis between separate syntactic movements, but our familiarity with
the co-presence of acoustic materiality and sequential grammar allows us
136 Graphic Poetics
closer to the experience which prompted the poet to ‘speak’, but no matter
how ‘free’ poetry can become of its impersonal conventions it will still be
language; and language, in order to preserve the moment of spontaneity,
the fusion of medium and referent, must be written down, stilled, frozen
in the silent configurations of the page, cummings’s poetry asks us to think
again about language as a barrier: he demonstrates that the inbuilt tension
between word and thing, signifier and signified should be replaced by a
sense of living within language as well as through it. His skill is manifest
in his achievement of a delicate balance between these two experiences:
his texts incorporate linguistic forms which can never be spoken, never
be translated into the temporality of auditory communication, yet, para-
doxically, cummings the speaker is present within them. Thus he exists at
the border of the sliding scale. These are his poems in the sense that they
contain a trace, a shadow of his spoken presence, the moment when feel-
ing and impression become language; but at the same time they inhabit
the realm of visual artefacts, paintings, sculpture, whose material function
remains immune to the interpreter’s urge to perform them. His poems
deconstruct the tension between permanence and transcendence in lan-
guage by interweaving the immediacy and ephemerality of the utterance
with the permanent materiality of the artefact.
cummings is that rare phenomenon, a poet without a specific aesthetic
or technical context. His work appears in anthologies of concrete poetry,
but it is just as likely to be found in collections whose criterion for inclusion
could be ‘American’, ‘modern’, ‘contemporary’ or sometimes ‘comic’. In
studies of free verse he features as the nagging eccentric whose presence
cannot be ignored, but whose experiments continue to disrupt our attempts
to document the methods and characteristics of modernist writing. The
reason for this is that the poems with which he is most readily associated,
his visual texts, are instances of what Mukarovsky and Jakobson have called
‘foregrounding’ (aktualisace). No one, whether they are a formalist or not,
objects to foregrounding; indeed the self-conscious positioning of devices
and techniques that do not serve the practical purpose of communicating
facts or ideas has become a common feature of modern attempts to define
poetry. But as we have seen in Chapter 3, ‘baring the device’ is a practice
that can only be fully documented and understood when the device is seen
to belong to the linear, acoustic dimension of language. cummings fore-
grounds the graphic materiality of language not merely as an iconoclastic
gesture, but to show how silent visual language can signify independently
of its acoustic-counterpart, and crucially he does not allow the device to
obscure the living, though often silent, presence of the poet.
138 Graphic Poetics
As I indicated the ‘black lines’ have been used by critics to reinforce the
notion of the printed text as subsidiary to its spoken form, a mere record of
an idealized vocal performance. However, they have unintentionally served
to prove quite the opposite; that when the lines are applied to pieces by
Milton or Williams they hide as much as they disclose; specifically interre-
lationships between the units of meaning that have nothing to do with lin-
earity. One example I omitted from that discussion was not intended by its
author as a critical device. Rather, Man Ray’s ironically titled ‘Lautgedicht’
(1924) involves an ingenius dismantling of the thesis that what we see on the
page is a model for vocalization or an accurate record of how poems work.
The Sliding Scale 139
_____ ___________ __
mi (dreamlike) st
This brief passage (from ‘Les Jets de la Poupee’) does not do proper just-
ice to the persistent dynamic of her poems. Units of language are gathered
in blocks on the page and provoke our desire, instinct, to reposition them,
break them up and reassemble them according to our expectation that
syntax shall govern individual words and of how the latter should retain
their integrity. We watch the text and we expect to hear, in our mind, the
sound of the poem. What we encounter is what logic deems impossible: two
voices speaking to us, silently, simultaneously, from the page.
The issue to be addressed in the following chapter is the extent to which
techniques and patterns which satisfy the criteria of the sliding scale have
manifested themselves in the work of poets who would seem to share no
aesthetic or technical affiliations. We have already seen that Milton has
much more in common with cummings than conventional criticism would
have us believe, and in what follows I shall use the sliding scale to pro-
pose an alternative to the accepted histories of technique in American and
British postmodernist poetry.
Chapter 8
The purpose of this chapter will be to use the perceptual guideline of the
sliding scale to examine how visual form has manifested itself in postmod-
ernist poetic writing. T. S. Eliot is arguably the first of the postmodernist
poets since, although a contemporary of Pound and the Imagists, we find
that in his later writing he accommodates the techniques and patterns of
formal regularity alongside his allegiances to experiment. But, as Eliot and
the second generation of twentieth-century poets demonstrate, visual poet-
ics is a phenomenon that does not easily correspond with the more familiar
formal and aesthetic distinctions between pro- and anti-modernism.
proponents are Charles Olson, Robert Creeley, Robert Duncan and more
recently Gary Snyder. It is of course dangerous to generalize, but these
poets/critics share an awareness of the existence of visual form that is
uneasily matched by their belief in poetic writing and interpretation as
founded upon the spoken text. I have already referred to the paradoxical
relationship between the static, visualist theories of Fenollosa and the
phonocentric allegiances of the Imagists. This has not resolved itself –
rather, it has intensified. The text that stands at the thematic and his-
torical centre of these developments is Charles Olson’s essay ‘Projective
Verse’ (1950), an attempt to keep alive the revolutionary impetus of mod-
ernism amidst the more pluralistic and reactionary atmosphere of post-
war writing and criticism. Olson’s crucial distinction is between ‘closed’
and ‘open’ poetry. ‘Closed’ poetry is ‘print bred’, frozen in the abstract
formulae of metre and rhyme – in other words, the greater part of poetry
written before the twentieth century, and by implication the kind of text
which utilizes graphic material as a means of signification. Olson’s atti-
tude to ‘closed’ poetry is an extension of Fenollosa’s perception of the
infelicitous tendencies of Western language; that the conventions of the
medium itself absorb and restructure the relationship between the indi-
vidual and reality. According to Olson the formal protocols of the ‘closed’
poem reify and delimit any genuine attempt at communication between
poet and reader, so that the original subject and object, the poet and
the world, are transformed into grammatical, stylistic categories. Olson’s
escape route leads directly away from an ‘arbitrary’ relationship between
poetic form and the ‘real’ world:
every element in an open poem (the syllable, the line, as well as the
image, the sound, the sense) must be taken up as participants in the kin-
etic of the poem just as solidly as we are accustomed to take what we call
the objects of reality; and these elements are to be seen as creating the
tensions of a poem just as totally as do those whose objects create what
we know as the world . . . (p. 20)
The most tangible constituent of the poem’s identity, the line, is less a pros-
odic category or a link with tradition and more a function of the poet’s
interaction with his environment.
And the line comes (I swear it) from the breath, from the breathing of
the man who writes, at the moment that he writes, and thus is, it is here
that the daily, the WORK, gets in, for only he, the man who writes, can
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 143
declare, at every moment, the line its metric and its ending – where its
breathing shall come to, termination.
Steele, Blake and Lowell are recalled, and Olson goes on to deal with the
problem of the ‘printer’s measure’. The manuscript and printing press
have, according to Olson, removed verse ‘from its place of origin and its
destination’; he believes that the traditional metrical line was petrified by
print into a barrier between poet and reader. His solution is provided by
more recent technology, the typewriter, which
due to its rigidity and its space precisions, it can, for a poet indicate
exactly the breath, the pauses, the suspensions even of syllables, the jux-
tapositions even of parts of phrases, which he intends. For the first time
the poet has the stave and the bar a musician has had. For the first time
he can, without the convention of rime and meter, record the listening
he has done to his own speech and by that one act indicate how he would
want any reader, silently or otherwise, to voice his own work. (p. 26)
Olson’s poetry is visual in the sense that the openings, closings and typo-
graphic dispositions of his lines are determined neither by the abstract
conventions of metre and rhyme nor by the exigencies of typesetting. But
it does not satisfy the necessary criteria for inclusion on the sliding scale.
His objective is transparency; the line is a record, an indication of the per-
ceptual, mental and spoken process that brought it into existence, and he
expects the reader to respond to it as a means of ‘voicing’ his work, shar-
ing the prelinguistic experience of which the printed poem is a record.
Consider, for instance, the beginning of one of Olson’s Maximus letters:
leans in
on me I compell
backwards I compell Gloucester
to yield
habits and rhythms of the body in its interaction with the natural world.
Indeed, Steele’s eighteenth-century anticipation of the open poem was
closely linked with the pre-Romantic taste for aesthetic primitivim – a
school of thought that regarded true poetry as resulting from pre-civilized
man’s first engagements with the imperatives of response and communi-
cation. They believed that culture, form and print had for about a millen-
nium conspired against such objectives. More recently, in Cid Corman’s
Word for Word (1977), we find Olson’s manifesto employed as a means of
reinterpreting the constraints and impositions of poetic tradition: ‘The
voice, as the articulator of expression, is the shaper of poetic style or per-
sonality, but always in conjunction with the ear, i.e. the voice and the ear
(which supposes inevitably the mental faculty) modulate the breath . . . the
breath is the unit of poetic energy’ (pp. 67–8). As such, argues Corman,
we should attempt to read behind the conventions of tradition to disclose
the originary pre-structured moment of composition. To demonstrate how
we might do this he follows Rice, Walker and Steele on Milton and breaks
up four lines of Keats’s Endymion into ‘breath pauses’:
Its loveliness
Increases
It will never pass
Into nothingness;
But still will keep a bower
Quiet for us
And a sleep
Full of sweet dreams
And health
And quiet breathing
The words are still Keats’s but the interpretative context has changed.
Elements such as ‘Increases’ and ‘Into nothingness’ have been released
from what Olson would regard as their ‘closed’ condition within the
146 Graphic Poetics
sequential pattern of syntax and the pentameter. But there are a number
of problems attendant upon such formal flexibility.
Olson’s desire to record the ‘listening he has done to his own speech’
corresponds to an unrealizable ideal that Derrida identifies in the
French verb ‘s’entendre parler – “hearing/understanding oneself speak”
through the phonic substance – which presents itself as a non-exterior,
non-mundane therefore, non-empirical or non-contingent signifier’
(Of Grammatology, pp. 7–8). But it is the evanescence of the signifier in
speech that creates the impression of immediate access to a tangible
signified, a form of truth that is a ‘non-contingent’ part of the immedi-
ate experience, the ‘breath’ of the poet. What Olson and Corman con-
veniently forget is that speech and typing must stop, that the kinetic of
the poem will eventually become stasis, and the text will present itself
as a network of silent graphemes. It will then fall prey to the likes of
Jonathan Culler and Stanley Fish who will, irrespective of what the poet
might claim in his ex-cathedra statements, demonstrate that formless-
ness can, via the signalling mechanism of the visual format, invite the
reader to impose patterns and complex strategies of formalization and
signification upon it.
I believe that the poets of the sliding scale recognize these practical dan-
gers in Olson’s otherwise creditable objectives. It can be no accident that
Williams’s 1953 statement ‘On Measure’ was addressed to Cid Corman:
argued for the interweaving of the material text, its ideational pattern and
the presence of the poet. During the same period he helped to edit a small
magazine called Contact which was to become known as the vehicle for
one of the many modernist splinter groups, the objectivists. Objectivism,
like most other aestheticisms, tends to shift in definition according to the
individual predilections of its practitioners, but it would not be an over-
generalization to claim that its essential premise was the re-establishment
of the text as a self-referential aesthetic object, to invest the poem with the
status of something peculiar to perceptual and technical idiosyncracies
of its creator – the object of mediation was held to be as important as the
object mediated. The correspondences between the Imagist – objectivist
split and the visual – spoken dimensions of poetic form have not been fully
investigated but they are, as I shall show, significant.
The best-known objectivist is probably Louis Zukofsky. His conception
of the ontology of the poetic artefact is clearly and economically stated in
his slight volume, A Test of Poetry (1964): ‘The test of poetry is the range of
pleasure it affords as sight, sound and intellection.’ He goes on to clarify
this and to claim that the activities of seeing, hearing and thinking should
involve an engagement as much with the artefact itself as with its relation
to the extratextual world. The speech–writing distinction is paralleled by
the phonocentrist–objectivist split. Compare Zukofsky’s thesis with the fol-
lowing statement by Olson’s ally and fellow-phonocentrist Robert Creeley:
One wants to write the poem, put it, as ultimately as one would say it; the
page is his means, not his end. If we grant that poetry must be relegated
finally to what the eye can read, then we have no poetry. . . . Otherwise
one works in, to the page, as where he can score, in a literal sense, the
language of his poem; he wants that as his means, the structure of his
words on the page, in the sense that their spatial positions there will
allow a reader to read them, with his own voice, to that end the poet is
after – i.e. the poem in its full impact of speech.2
The poem on the page is a score that will enable the reader not merely to
vocalize the words but to understand, ‘to read them with his own voice’. The
distinction between the objectivist and phonocentrist conceptions of form
and understanding becomes most evident when we test Creeley’s thesis
against the poems in Zukofsky’s volume I’s (pronounced ‘eyes’) (1937–60,
collected in ALL, 1966). The pun within the title emerges as the principal
motif of the volume. Personal pronoun and means of seeing, subject and
noun, become fused within the shifting tissue of the verse forms. Meaning
148 Graphic Poetics
There are two poems here. ‘Wire’ could, like Ts’ and ‘eyes’, easily be pro-
nounced ‘Why’re’. The flat impersonal tone of the first stanza is then
transformed into an enquiry: why are cage flues on the roofs? If we carry
this enquiry through stanzas 2 and 3 the poem becomes a mildly bizarre
disquisition on the unintended artistry of domestic utilities: whatever the
practical benefits of the flues they can, for the beholder, create the image
of doves released from cages. Read simply in its graphemic denotation as
‘wire’ the speaker’s presence becomes less certain: the emphasis is shifted
away from the poet as the conscious initiator of the question and towards
the three separate stanza/images, whose relation to one another is uncer-
tain. In this sense the poem becomes like the juxtaposed sequences of the
early Imagist writing – of which ‘In a Station of the Metro’ is the proto-
type – but in the former case we find ourselves addressed directly by a voice
whose presence maintains a thread of structure and continuity through
the three stanzas. The point is that we can never dislocate one poem from
the other; they are locked together within the text’s continual movement
between silence and sound. The T of the poet is both within and outside
the language of the poem and the ‘eye’ of the reader enables this continu-
ous process of entry and departure to take place.
Objectivists such as Zukofsky belong on the sliding scale; the movement
of the spoken text is in constant interplay with its silent printed form.
I would place Zukofsky along with cummings at the border, but for slightly
different reasons. Williams and cummings use the poetic line as the prin-
cipal axis between the two dimensions of cognition and signification, but
Zukofsky’s method depends more upon the insertion of a single word or
phrase (such as Wire – Why’re) which will resonate through the pattern of
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 149
the entire poem, its semantic shadow continually falling and withdrawing
from the attendant structures of meaning. What Zukofsky certainly shares
with Williams and cummings is the urge to leave the technical equivalent
of his signature within text: he does not merely, in Olson’s terms, listen to
his own speech, he creates patterns within the materiality of the text that
demote speech to a dimension rather than a determinant, of its total signi-
fying function. It is important to be clear about the distinction between the
phonocentrist and the objectivist conceptions of form and signification.
The phonocentrists are the heirs of the early Imagist practice of creat-
ing patterns that will reflect and mediate rather than literally incorporate
the process of perception becoming thought, becoming language. Gary
Snyder, whose work is both associated with the 1960s groupings of beat
poets and the Duncan-Creeley ‘Black Mountain’ school is also, in terms
of his formal techniques, a direct descendant of T. E. Hulme, Richard
Aldington and H. D. His diction might be rooted in his personal experi-
ence as lumberjack and forest ranger but his use of the line encodes the
conventions of Some Imagist Poets:
The gap between each line is not just a rhetorical, vocal pause; it is a the-
matic and structural isolation of one moment of perception and concep-
tualization from another. Continuities of syntax and form are deliberately
excluded, so that we are urged not to admire the work of the linguistic
craftsman, but to look behind the language of the text towards the experi-
ence that prompted it.
Denise Levertov has produced the most sophisticated ex-cathedra obser-
vations on the phonocentrist school of writing. She has taken issue with the
literal interpretation of Olson’s concept of the poem as a score for vocal
performance: ‘The breath idea is taken by a lot of young poets to mean the
rhythm of the outer voice . . . and they produce poems which are purely doc-
umentary.’ In this she seems to be in agreement with Williams’s complaint
against ill discipline, ‘the words all over the page’, and her discussion of the
relation between rhetorical pauses and line breaks echoes the objectivist
150 Graphic Poetics
The eye and the material language does indeed ‘come back again’ to the
left-hand margin, ‘and again’ the eye ‘falls’ to register in the bottom line
‘this quiet, persistent rain’. The rhyme and the referential function of the
language do their job, but they are attached by the silent inner voice which
allows us to savour the ‘poem’s life’, a life that will not be extinguished
once the sequence of acoustic integers is concluded.
Post-Projective Verse
One could, chronologically, establish the originators of Projectivism as
Olson (b. 1910), Duncan (b. 1919) and Snyder (b. 1926). There was not so
much a second generation as a group of poets, often only a decade younger,
whose most important work appeared in the 1950s and early 60s, and their
poems are important because they indicate an inclination to dwell some-
times tentatively, even guiltily, upon the material of language. The poets
who often cited Olson as their moving spirit were far more prone than he
to experiment with visualism. It could be argued that they brought into the
foreground a number of fascinating and potentially paradoxical elements
of his notion of Projectivism, features of his thesis that ran against its pre-
dominantly phonocentric bias. In his famous essay Olson describes the
collapse of space and time to a single point from which the process of writ-
ing can begin, and he regards the competing forces of the temporal and
the spatial as, thereafter, part of the dynamic of composition. Routinely,
commentators have taken him to refer here exclusively to time and space
as existential concepts, essentially prelinguistic dimensions of experience
which converge during the process of writing. Equally, however, one can
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 151
trace through his work indications of a far more literal frame of reference,
as if, despite himself he cannot quite exclude from this model of creativity
what actually happens as ink meets paper; specifically the curious relation-
ship between the temporal movement of language across the page and
the static spatially designated format of words and their interrelationships:
the finished text. In a later essay called ‘The Present is the Prologue’ he
states:
My shift as I take it is that the present is prologue, not the past. The
instant therefore. Is its own interpretation . . . and any action – a poem,
for example. (1997, p. 205)
The curious syntactic break between ‘therefore.’ and ‘Is its own’ might
seem a customary almost gratuitous sop to the unorthodox stylistic mood
of Projectivisim, but look closer and one becomes aware that Olson is actu-
ally engaged in a demonstration of how the tension between time and
space, movement and stasis, shapes the very process of composition. He
captures ‘The instant’ in the preliminary sentence, closes it, despatches
it to an immobile past; and yet as he moves forward, with a connective
‘Is’ he suddenly brings it again to life, extends its resonance into the next
sentence. Later he meditates upon what actually happens after the poet
moves beyond that initial moment of composition, when the first letter is
placed on the page, which he calls the ‘instant’. After the ‘instant’ the poet
has access to ‘the large area of the whole poem, into the FIELD if you like,
where all the syllables and all the lines must be managed in relation to
one another’ (1997, p243). From the cracks in Olson’s phonocentrist mask
emerges the poet as painter, negotiating the units and spaces of language
not strictly as a temporal successive medium, but also involving words as
objects on the page whose static, geometric relationships are as significant
as their place in the syntagmatic chain. ‘FIELD’ is generally interpreted as
a figurative usage, signifying the realm of the imagination. I would con-
tend that Olson, at least in part, entertained a far more literal sense of
space; the field of the page.
Consider Letter 10 from The Maximus Letters, the point where he muses
upon the origins and foundations of Gloucester:
The beak’s
there. And the pectoral.
The fins,
for forwarding.
But to do it anew, now that even fishing . . .
(Olson, 1960)
Images drawn from the religious nature, mostly Puritan, of the place’s
foundation, largely Puritan, and its economic basis as a fishing commu-
nity compete for attention in his mind. He does not marshal his thoughts
according to the organizing principles of language. Instead he allows this
cascade of impressions and words to mirror on the page their originary
hybridized nature. The ‘beak’ could be the magistrate or it might be the
prow of the fishing boat, a term which endures from seventeenth-century
English. The pectoral is, generally, the lower fin of a fish but it is, also
from seventeenth-century dialect, a term often applied to a cross worn on
the chest, and the fins themselves could belong either to the fish or the
boat. Olson drifts continually between related but opposed frames of ref-
erence, semantic interfaces that are never permitted closure or definition.
Significantly he replicates this impressionistic state in the formal struc-
ture of the poem itself. Just as he never quite allows one image to displace
another, so also the words on the page never move forward without leaving
traces of their unspecified gestation.
The beak’s
there.
And,
The fins,
stand rigidly on the ship (or perhaps they belong to the fish) before launch-
ing the next part of the thought, the sentence
for forwarding . . .
And as he completes the line, we pause, move from the end of it and back
to its subject:
Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page.
There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by.
The title of John Wieners’s ‘A Poem for Painters’ (1958) indicates his
concern with the same issues. He states, daringly,
Only
in the poem
comes an image
– that we rule
the line by the pen
in the painter’s hand one foot
away from me.
Drawing the face
and its torture.
The ‘line’, at least when first referred to, is what Wieners manipulates as
a hedge against the hegemony of syntax, a dynamic we apprehend as his
poem spreads back and forth across the page. For a moment we suspect
that ‘the painter’s hand’ is his own, a figurative allusion to the represen-
tational, pictorial capacity of words, especially in verse. But we cannot be
certain of this. Perhaps his thesis, his sentiment, has turned against itself:
the poet will never overcome the arbitrary limitations of language to create
‘an image’. We wonder if the ‘foot’ is indeed an estimation of the distance
between the hand of the painter and his eye, or whether it carries a trace of
that other ‘foot’, the keystone of the linear univocal poem, the antithesis of
painterly freedom. As we read on further evidence of a sense of frustration
mutating into resignation emerges.
I light up as
morning glorys and
I am showered by the scent
. . . the scent
of the finished line.
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 155
Later he creates an effect that might come from a piece by Williams, where
the movement and stillness of language become the subject and the con-
dition of passage.
Gone Gate
Gone Gate
Really gone Paragate
Into the cool Parasamagate
Oh Mama! Svaha!
It is difficult to say exactly where the words ‘Reality’ and ‘dissolve’ are
meant to belong in the syntagmatic chain. Semantically and within the
thematic frame of the poem they are closely related but follow the already
unsteady continuity of the ‘line’ that begins with ‘Disappears’ and concludes
with ‘can’; linearity and succession seem to be suborned to a form of textual
geometry. Eigner is exploring the boundaries between the sequential regis-
ter of language and a form that is predominantly but not purely visual.
158 Graphic Poetics
T. S. Eliot
If one is to regard Williams as part of a technical legacy which has main-
tained the essentially experimental, anti-traditional tendencies of early
modernism, then it would not stretch the generalization to locate his con-
temporary T. S. Eliot at the head of an opposing, and mostly British, strat-
egy of compromise between formal precedent and individuality. This ideal
of a balance between the old and the new is central to ‘Tradition and the
Individual Talent’ and it is extended to the more specific field of prosody
in his ‘Reflections on “Vers Libre” ’.
For ‘limitation’ and ‘freedom’ one might read ‘mask’ and ‘voice’
(Hollander), ‘underlying tension of the line’ and ‘speech rhythms’
(Attridge) or ‘deep structure’ and ‘surface structure’ (practically any post-
1956 prosodist). But unlike the later theorists Eliot did not substantiate his
model of formal tension by suggesting what exactly constitutes a point of
stability and how the reader is supposed to respond to a degree of instabil-
ity which might threaten it. Clues can, however, be found in one of his
essays on Milton, ‘Milton II’ (1947):
else it may or may not be, is itself a system of punctuation; the usual marks
of punctuation themselves are differently employed.’7 One might ask how
we can differentiate poetic punctuation from the ‘usual marks’, unless of
course we can see patterns that we might not be able to fully appreciate in
the aural medium.
One could continue to speculate on these remarks and still never estab-
lish a degree of certainty as to their precise application, but a more intrigu-
ing chain of connections emerges when we compare them with Eliot’s
poetry. Consider the opening sequence of what must be the presiding
monument to modern poetic writing:
These lines are significant first because they serve to remind us that our
appreciation of poetic effects can be severely limited by our conventions of
reading. In two of the most substantial recent studies of free verse by Gross
(1964) and Hartman (1980) the two critics enter into a debate on what sys-
tem of prosodic analysis can best establish the dominant metrical structure
of each line. This may well be a creditable exercise, but it effectively clouds
our awareness of a formal effect which is far more central to their structure
and meaning.
When confronted with these lines, even the most unsophisticated reader
will be struck by the way in which each verbal termination operates as an
axis between the words preceding and following it. To argue as Gross and
Hartman do over whether the third line, with only three major stresses,
disrupts the consistency of the more general four-stress movement, is to
draw our attention away from the fact that lines operate as visual ‘punc-
tuation marks’, reordering our awareness of the sequential movement of
language. An eighteenth-century theorist like Rice would argue that they
are not lines at all and that the visual record of their true oral identity
would have them broken before ‘breeding’, ‘mixing’, ‘stirring’, ‘covering’
and ‘feeding’, and Sheridan would no doubt argue that it is the pause after
these words which contributes to the complex effect of progress and hesita-
tion. The point is that the structure of this sequence is dependent not upon
160 Graphic Poetics
the internal prosody of each line but upon the isolation of key syntactic
components of change between a grammatical pause and the white space
of the line ending; their visual placing controls the thematic and rhythmic
density of the passage.
We have moved to the opposite end of the sliding scale of visual effects
from the one occupied by cummings, but there is still a sense of typography
imposing upon sound and sequence. For instance, the visual isolation of
‘mixing’ allows a moment of subjectivity to disturb what would otherwise
be a rather flat catalogue of seasonal changes. The gap between ‘mixing’
and ‘Memory’ adds an almost melancholy note to the series of connectives
and recalls Wordsworth’s emotive isolation of ‘connect’ from the ‘land-
scape with the quiet of the sky’. Both poets achieve the effect of dispersing
the single authoritative voice of the speaker amongst the resistances and
diversions of the visual medium, and Eliot goes on to use the silent text in
a similar way, but with more disorientating results, in Ash Wednesday and
The Four Quartets.
The opening sequence of Section V in Ash Wednesday has raised a good
deal of critical controversy:
unspoken
Word
In ‘Burnt Norton’ Eliot reminds us that the poetic line can provide a
tangible axis between these two experiences:
It is the visual rather than the metrical identity of these lines that con-
trols the movement of the passage: the reader is drawn literally ‘Down’,
‘Towards’ and ‘Into’ the rose-garden. But what of the final half-lines?
The visual/syntactic pattern has not changed, but we are suddenly forced
into a reflexive contemplation of the technique and our participation in
it. The
echo
Thus
is a silent echo. The visual resonances echo in the ‘mind’ but not in the ear.
This anxious concern with the interplay of the permanent and the
ephemeral is more vividly realized in Section V of ‘Burnt Norton’:
The first part of the passage evokes the fragile condition of spoken lan-
guage – words might ‘move’ us but, like music, the effect is threatened by
the temporal evanescence of the medium. We find the acoustic sequence
of ‘speech, reach’ placed precipitately at the line ending, which leads ‘Into
the silence’.
But the tone changes and we are offered a ‘form’, a ‘pattern’, in which
‘words or music’ can achieve a state of permanence, can ‘reach / The
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 163
W. H. Auden
Auden is, arguably, the most explicit and eminent of the eclectic post-
modernists. By eclectic I mean that they consistently bring together
conventional forms and patterns with effects and disruptions of expect-
ation that are fuelled by the revolutionary techniques of the free verse
generation.
164 Graphic Poetics
These lines operate, silently, in two ways. The field’s pause is also, as we
see, the line’s pause, but the isolated substantive sense is transformed into
a more active verbal invitation to the reader to ‘pause where the chalk wall
falls’. The uncertainties continue when the eye reaches ‘Oppose’. It would
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 165
seem to be the cliffs that ‘Oppose the pluck and knock of the tide’, but the
dominance of a single sequential pattern of meaning is threatened: the
unstable condition of ‘pause’ seems to infect ‘Oppose’ with the subtle res-
onance of an order to the reader.
The effect is very similar to Wordsworth’s merger of personal identity
and objective fact in the silent texture of ‘Tintern Abbey’s’ opening lines,
and for further confirmation, if not of influence then at least of intertext-
ual agreement, we could consult The Prelude:
patterns of life with the way in which they are presented in the visual arts
both as accidents and as part of an aesthetic design. (Auden’s subject is
Brueghel’s ‘The Fall of Icarus’.)
Rhythmically, the poem seems to represent the ultimate form of free
verse with unstructured, discursive movements hardly disturbed by any
trace of metrical continuity. Because of a very irregular rhyme scheme we
have to concentrate hard to notice that the lines end when and where they
do. Auden seems to have isolated the rhymes almost as if they occur at
random in a prose sequence – no attention is given to line length or met-
rical structure and the rhyme scheme itself is unpredictable. The result
of this apparent abandonment of a coherent structural principle is, para-
doxically, to draw the reader’s attention to the way in which our use of
language involves us in a very delicate balancing-act between our control
of and our submission to an arbitrary system. Comparisons can be made
between this experiment with language and the methods of visual art,
since Augen seems to be challenging the notion that patterns of form and
structure are either purely contrived and systemic or purely random and
circumstantial – and again the strategies of Brueghel feature as the aes-
thetic correlative.
The most impressive moment in this challenge occurs in the second sec-
tion, when Auden, like Williams, creates a linguistic structure analogous to
the juxtaposed relations of visual art:
Charles Tomlinson
The notion of the poet as someone alive to the impersonality of the lin-
guistic system, as inhabiting and savouring its structures and materials just
as he responds to the prelinguistic world, runs against conventional ideas
of what poets are and do. Charles Tomlinson belongs to the post-Eliot,
post-Auden generation of British modernism, and in ‘Movements’, from
his 1972 collection Written on Water, he provides us with a creative mani-
festo for this curious merger of traditional form with objectivism:
Door
Opens on door . . .
The referential function of ‘the door’ is drawn into the more literal
sense of the poem as in itself an object that must be negotiated as each line
closes – and opens upon another.
At the end we are left with a sense of opposition between ‘the pulse of
exploration’, the prelinguistic notion of perception, inspiration and pres-
ence, and the ‘pulse’ that is detached from the bodily semantics of that
word, the pulse of the ‘line’. Tomlinson concedes – contra Steele, Lowell,
Olson and the phonocentrists – that the line is a structure that draws its
material and its pattern from the arbitrary sphere of language and poetic
convention. The manner in which such an opposition between the materi-
ality and the referential function of language might be blended becomes
apparent in a number of poems in the collection. Consider ‘The Square’:
A consolidation
of voices in the street
below, a wave
that never reaches
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 169
In simply hearing this poem we would not come across the curious inter-
weaving of the literal ‘words on the page’ with their referential function.
‘Below’ operates as an axis between two otherwise detached clauses – the
literal voices are in the street below, and below they have prompted the fig-
urative image of the wave. Conventional interpretative competence has not
equipped us to notice that ‘below’ literally divides the movement down the
page between the literal to the figurative – as we might perhaps if it rhymed
with, say, ‘flow’. But look again, and we find that the double pattern of graphic
materiality and conventional signification operates just as effectively as the
more familiar, though equally arbitrary, patterns of rhyme or alliteration:
the reflection
hung
And the word literally ‘hangs’ beneath the reflection. The pane
opens
inwards . . .
just as the line swings back towards the left-hand margin. As I argued in
Chapter 3, we have become acclimatized to accepting sound patterns as
contributory elements in the poet’s objective of mediating a feeling, an
impression from within the structure of the poem. Tomlinson shows us
170 Graphic Poetics
that it is possible to achieve this same effect with the printed material of
language. Unlike cummings he does not take us to the edge of the sliding
scale, at which the voice becomes a memory, but like Williams and Eliot we
feel the presence, the signature, of the poet within the silent configurations
of the text. Tomlinson in ‘Movements’ and ‘The Square’ recalls Williams’s
image of the poet moving with his words across the page; balancing his
own thoughts, perceptions and feelings against the need to negotiate the
arbitrary structures of poetic language, of which the line – detached from
syntactic rules but undeniably present – is the most significant element.
But it is in an earlier poem called, appropriately enough, ‘Lines’ that we
find the most accomplished realization of the poet within the text:
There are two texts, the written and the spoken, and the relation between
them can only be appreciated when we see the poem on the page. Read
aloud, the thematic centre is occupied by the image of ploughing, with
only the mysterious reference to the ‘page complete’ to make us suspect a
possible analogy with linguistic creation. But on the page the lines of the
plough are also the lines of the poem:
the new
and growing groove
The true realisation of the poet’s voice comes from a blending or a mar-
riage of the silent and the spoken forms. If we put this into the shape
of a figure of speech, if we conceived of the voice as it reads the poem
as being on the horizontal plane, and if we thought of the text on the
page, as it were, going down vertically, then I think that the listener
should follow the spoken poem in the way that a listener follows a string
quartet with a score. I think only by being most keenly sensitive to that
moment when the horizontal of the spoken voice comes into contact
with the formalities, with the restraints, with the restrictions that are
there printed in the text, only by recognising with immediate sensitiv-
ity those moments of contact, of harmony or of hostility, only then can
the reader, the listener, truly appreciate how the poet’s voice is being
realised in the most minute, intimate, and yet profoundly rich, prosodic
forms.8
2
For whom do we scrape our tribute of pain –
For none but the ritual King? We meditate
A rueful mystery: we are dying
To satisfy fat Caritas, those
Wiped jaws of stone. (Suppose all reconciled
By silent music; imagine the future
Flashed back at us, like steel against sun,
Ultimate recompense.) Recall the cold
Of Towton on Palm Sunday before dawn,
Wakefield, Tewkesbury; fastidious trumpets
Shrilling into the ruck; some trampled
Acres, parched, sodden or blanched by sleet,
Struck with strange-postured dead. Recall the wind’s
Flurrying, darkness over the human mire.
In a note on these poems Hill states that ‘the sequence avoids shaping
these characters and events into any overt narrative or dramatic struc-
ture.’ This is something of an understatement, because the identity and
temporal presence of a single voice or perspective is ruthlessly disrupted.
Phrases such as ‘our tribute of pain’ are both retrospective and immedi-
ate; and the broader shift from the present tense of ‘We meditate’ and ‘we
are dying’ to ‘Recall the cold’ confirm this sense of disorientation. But,
as with Eliot’s similar evocation of chaos, it is possible to find a form of
order, particularly if we follow Hill’s advice to both listen to and look at
the poem. An oral performance would accentuate Hill’s self-referential
notion of ‘heartless music punctuated by mutter-ings, blasphemies and
cries for help’, but if we also examine the visual format of the poem we
come upon breaks such as
we are dying
To satisfy fat Caritas
them
leafless vines.
174 Graphic Poetics
Are they deliberately ‘dying to’, wanting to, satisfy fat Caritas or is this proc-
ess part of a deterministic pattern? The mystery is frozen in the printed
text. Similarly, with
some trampled
Acres
we need the printed text to capture the hesitant fluctuation of ‘some [men]
trampled’ and ‘trampled / Acres’.
In oral performance these intensities are lost, but, in Hill’s words,
‘when the horizontal of the spoken comes into contact with the restric-
tions that are there printed in the text’, we experience a productive colli-
sion of two separate appreciative dimensions. The sonnet has exercised a
curious fascination for modern poets. Its silent, rhymeless form has been
used by Gavin Ewart and, almost obsessively, by Robert Lowell, though
neither poet employs such productive visual–acoustic complexes as Hill.
Williams and cummings have toyed provocatively with its tight structural
pattern. Mary Ellen Solt in ‘Moonshot Sonnet’9 has produced a series of
black lines which, according to her, were ‘Made by copying the scientists’
symbols on the first photos of the moon in the New York Times: there were
exactly 14 ‘lines’ with five ‘accents’ (p. 307) – the only known example of
a ‘found’ sonnet. The rhymed sonnet demands the most disciplined and
intense co-ordinations of sound and sense; it could be regarded as the
most inflexible test of the poet’s control of the acoustic double pattern.
As such, its use as a silent, visual structure represents another dimension
of cummings’s deployment of the shadow of speech, in which the poetic
line becomes a memory of its conventional function as a measurement
of sound. In the rhymeless sonnet, as indeed with many of Milton’s pen-
tameters, tradition, expectation, conditioned familiarity are invoked by
the printed format, and the reader carries these through his experience
of the text.
The notion of the printed poem as a ‘frame’ into which the poet must
fit his words just as the visual artist will fit shapes and colours becomes
most evident in Williams’s picture–poem correspondences in Pictures from
Brueghel, but the constant use by poets of the interplay between the mem-
ory of the rhymed sonnet and the configurations of visual pattern suggest
broader significance. The fact that the page of a book contains language
in roughly oblong compartments is an exigency, a contingency of book
production. Prose writers do not have to take account of what their stylis-
tic and formal devices will look like in print, and in traditional verse the
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 175
Williams:
We will it so
and so it is
past all accident.
Jonson:
Corvino: The man is mad!
Corbaccio: What’s that?
Corvino: He is possessed.
Jonson:
Corvino: My life, my fame-
Bonario: Where is’t?
Corvino: Are at the stake.
Williams:
I do not like it
and wanted to be
in heaven. Hear me out
Do not turn away
Jonson:
Ananias: I hate traditions!
I do not trust them -
Tribulation: Peace!
Ananias: They are Popish all.10
The fact that Jonson divides his pentameters between his characters
(the split into three is the most common) and the fact that their con-
sequent appearance on the page resembles Williams’s triadic stanza
should not be dismissed as an accident – we have already come across
more than accidental resemblances between ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’
and Paradise Lost. When we experience Jonson’s plays in performance
the intonational patterns and the physical existence of the characters
set up a contrast with the unity and continuity of the pentameter, but,
read silently or even vocalized by one person there is a more powerful
feeling of separate voices inhabiting the single presence of Ben Jonson.
Their movement diagonally across the page and back to the right-hand
margin is an instance of the visual frame of verse ratifying this contract.
Williams’s stanzas achieve a similar effect in that we can discern the
push, the continuity, of his presence moving the language across the
page and back again, but the gaps between each diagonal movement are
not simply staged pauses or syntactic breaks; they allow another dimen-
sion of Williams’s thought, his character, to stop, reflect and continue.
Like Jonson we sense a curious balance between fragmentation and con-
tinuity, and in the same way the contract is guaranteed by the page as a
record of Williams’s craft and presence. Williams said that ‘it is marvel-
lous . . . to cut diagonally across the page as if it were a field of daisies’,
but he acknowledged in ‘Perpetuum Mobile’ that the poet, like the girls
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 177
pause sometimes . . .
and
reform the line . . .
back and
forth and back and forth
and back and forth.
The visual frame of the free-verse poem, the sense of its shape as a compos-
itional factor, can influence even those poets whose stylistic allegiances are
firmly rooted in premodernist patterns of rhyme and metre. Philip Larkin
emerged as the hard-bitten cynic of post-war British anti-modernism, but
I would argue that a number of the effects generated in one of his most
conventional poems ‘An Arundel Tomb’ were inspired by half a century of
experiment with the shape of the poem on the page. The six-line stanzas
maintain a dutiful octosyllabic metre and are interwoven with a complex a,
b, b, c, a, c rhyme scheme. One would think that shape will simply reflect
sound pattern, but after the first stanza in which he introduces us to the
recumbent statues of the earl and countess we find that the enjambments
begin to enact something close to graphic mimesis. Stanza 2:
until
It meets
and
One sees
178 Graphic Poetics
Awareness
Larkin’s comments are significant because they reflect the fact that poets
with as little in common as Williams, Hill, Tomlinson, Eliot, Auden and
Larkin himself are far more able and willing to acknowledge the influence
of visual form than are their counterparts in the critical world. In 1980 the
journal Epoch circulated to 29 British and American poets a questionnaire
on the theory and practice of the line. The resulting symposium (Epoch,
Vol. 29, 1980, pp. 161–224) is intriguing. The poets are divided about 50:50
between those who endorse the conventional model of the line as a score
for vocal performance and those who regard the graphic format of the
poem as a means of signification that will operate independently of acous-
tic structure. The phonocentric School is well supported by the British
and Irish contingent – particularly Seamus Heaney, D. J. Enright, Donald
Davie and Craig Raine – but the feeling that contemporary poetic writ-
ing has evolved a visualist technique for which there is no recognized crit-
ical terminology cuts through broader technical allegiances and national
barriers. The comments on visualism relate closely to my concept of the
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 179
The force of the line is sinister, rushing always out of the left, as lan-
guage or speech originates from the left side of the brain, into the virgin
space on the right. . . . The line builds suspense toward the realisation
of turning in mid-speech to the next line. . . . Most lines are a gathering
force, a staging ground for the flight to the next. (pp. 207–8)
Recent Spatialists
As we have seen, the post-Olsonian US poets who flourished during the
1950s were, despite Olson’s allegenies to speech, frequently drawn towards
manipulation of the visual material of language, often setting up within
the same poem contrasts between passages dominated by linearity and
those in which typographic separation – often the two-dimensional geom-
etry of the sign – disrupts the progress of the syntagmatic chain.
In the United States this tendency did not so much fade as atrophy; it
persisted but as a token of established radicalism. It has remerged in a more
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 181
The visually separated phrases invite us to think inside and outside the
mental frame of the speaker, to switch between things apprehended –
‘birds’, ‘fields’, ‘a heron’ – and an internalized meditation upon selfhood
and relationships – ‘love’, ‘people one meets’, ‘you’. It is possible to make
connections between these levels of signification in a manner licensed by
the techniques of Culler, Fish et al., but Riley has rendered such strategies
self-evidently cumbersome and inappropriate. We would be imposing upon
a text a condition of continuity which suffocates its dynamic nature.
Although his technique is different from the effects of premodernist
enjambment Riley creates something similar to Wollheim’s twofold thesis;
a divergence between the phoncentric movement of the words and their
silent static relationships which resists a single naturalization. As we read
the text in a conventional linear manner, left-to-right, we encounter two
different threads of continuity; in effect separate frames of reference. Were
we to literally recite the text or even conduct a phonic naturalization based
upon the hegemonic rationality of syntax, anything resembling coherence
would be transient. Even someone with the interpretative sophistication
of Fish would find it difficult to maintain that ‘November fields mist start-
ling confidence tricks a heron slim wrists’ can be rescued from a state of
182 Graphic Poetics
impenetrable randomness. But when read with the eye we can, if not fully
dispense with the syntagm, then at least apprehend two versions of the
chain working simultaneously.
Most significantly we come close to experiencing that much sought liter-
ary holy grail, the capturing of perception, impression and ratiocination
at the precipitate point just prior to their surrender to language: internal
contemplation and external apprehension caught, almost, concurrently.
Riley’s technique beers a close resemblance to that of Steve McCaffery.
This is from his ‘Learning Lenin’
overlaps, with the two voices sharing each other’s visually designated spaces.
These effects are further complicated by the use of breath pauses, gaps
of varying length within lines which create a third level of counterpoint.
All that can be surmised is that such effects indicate the controlling hand
of the poet, herself uncertain of how to deal with the interanimation and
interweaving of the two voices. Like Riley, she invokes phonocentrism while
undermining its primacy as the determinant feature of a single paraphrasi-
ble text. Our eye follows the linear script but at the same time alights upon a
multiplicity of potential registers, states of mind. These are simultaneously
present and undo the alliance between linearity and naturalization:
lunar masque
anequine head scars a woman’s face bleeds white
prehensile lips before ruin
bloodsucking and hooked in two black trenches
rapacious horse play crush down on cheekbones
grey black
ochre stone
grey black
ochre clay
why
/whirring pipsqueak/can’t thinking
why can’s thinking
fitthinking fit
186 Graphic Poetics
this apt
black black
grey red
black red
grey grey
black
The columns enact his refusal to accept the tyranny of the syntagm, the
rules by which individual words are caused to organize or record what we
see and experience. He cannot abandon language completely, but he can
at least dispense with a predictable relationship between its units.
Catherine Walsh is without doubt one of the most challenging of con-
temporary poets. Her stylistic trademark, if so consistent an element can
be found in such an iconoclastic writer, is the use of each individual line
as, what Veronica Forrest-Thompson, calls the ‘disconnected image com-
plex’. Each of these resembles a paired-down version of a Western haiku
poem, something that appears to have been lifted from a more substantial
text, denied a context or often even a sense of syntactic completion; leav-
ing the reader with a sense of gnomic possibility and nothing more. Yet,
brilliantly, she also tempts us, the readers, towards a search for continuity.
Grammatically, the lines belong together. We are led forward by enjambed
connections between adjective and noun, pronoun and verb, noun and
verb and so on but each subsequent line causes an abrupt shift of context,
to an image or mood previously unsignalled:
Tom Raworth is the poet most frequently cited by members of the con-
temporary new wave as if not their inspiration then at least the figure most
admired as instilling post war British and Irish poetry with a mood of Black
Mountain radicalism. In all of Raworth’s work a preoccupation with lan-
guage as material, particularly visual material on the page, is self-evident.
He experiments continually with enjambment, typeface, spatial organiza-
tion and in ‘That More Simple Natural Time Tone Distortion’ (1975) he
too opts for the double column as a hedge against the sentence:
TREMOR my tube
stillness moon
of slow behind
my present silence
moves peace
within or the play
me
Intriguingly, he also comments on his rationale for the poem. ‘I can see
it as a variant of the reader who sees something in a poem (and it’s hap-
pened to me) that had never been seen nor intended by the author.’ What
he means is the way in which the eye of the reader can stray outside the
linear phonocentric sequence to words and phrases that, by an accident of
typography, variously corrupt and extend the orderly progress of sense. He
decides to create a text where the direction of reading is predominantly lin-
ear – it is not quite a Concrete Poem – but which also involves options, inter-
sections between words and phrases that cut across, sometimes overtake
our chosen track of interpretation. It is an interesting work but Raworth
188 Graphic Poetics
What neither Hartman nor any other commentor on Glas dwells upon is the
intriguing distinction between Derrida’s apparent purpose and his means of
achieving it. The former involves a vast spectrum of literary and philosophic
questions regarding the relationship, intellectually, ideologically and in soci-
ety, between discourses and interpretative perspectives. The latter, it hardly
needs to be pointed out, bears a striking resemblance to the double columns
used in by poets from Eigner onwards.
Equally, there are intriguing parallels between Glas and the poetry of
Riley and McCaffery. In the work of the latter, particularly, the reader finds
that their expectation of how the passive, static printed words and their
linear, successive, active counterparts will contribute to the same trajectory
of meaning is disrupted. Both patterns of significance are simultaneously
copresent, but equally, they begin to act against each other, generate mul-
tiple strands of meaning that reach beyond momentary ambiguities and
towards irresolvable divergences in sense. The fact that Jacques Derrida
is personally responsible for placing the two columns of his ‘book’ along-
side each other in order to create a dynamic between a linear reading of
each and a spatial interaction between both is undeniable. By overlooking
this – deliberately or not – Hartman sidesteps a factor that disproves his the-
sis. Derrida is self-evidently responsible for the text’s ‘ . . . tangled, contami-
nated, displaced’ state. He, its author, certainly does not ‘fade’. Hartman’s
misreading of Derrida is less a flaw in his own deconstructive programme as
an extension of a blindness that Derrida in his work inflicts upon himself.
In ‘Living On’ (1979) Derrida attempts something similar to his exercise
in Glas by placing one discourse above the other, with the former indicat-
ing its role as the main text and the latter, seemingly a commentary. He
describes the lower text as ‘a procession underneath the other one, going
past it in silence, as if it did not see it, as if it had nothing to do with it’
(p. 78). Just as Glas invites comparsions with the work of a number of post-
Eigner poets so ‘Living On’ has obvious parallels with the work of Frank
Kuppner. In fact, Derrida’s comments on his experiment could easily serve
as the rationale for Kuppner’s techniques in ‘Eclipsing Bineries’. Consider
the following lines:
relationships between words that run beneath and above each other in
poetic lines juxtaposed against their linear, successive chain. Derrida is
using typography as a means of illustrating more universal issues, specifi-
cally the relationship between intertextuality and epistemology. In doing
so, however, he overlooks his own role as the choreographer of effects spe-
cific to a text for which he is solely responsible. He exploits features of lan-
guage that enable him to mount an assault upon the canon of philosophic
doctrine. Yet poets since Milton have been aware of these same radical
potentialities. I refer here to the tactile constituents of language, units that
are not in themselves things or referents but which nonetheless avoid the
evanescent, temporary nature of speech. Derrida declares that the linear
writer, the individual who upholds that language is essentially phonocen-
tric, is guiltily ‘rooted in a past of non linear writing . . . a writing that spells
its symbols pluri-dimensionally; there the meaning is not subjected to suc-
cessivity, to the order of a logical time, or to the irreversible temporality
of sound’. (Of Grammatology, p.85). He refers here to ‘primitive’ cultures
in which signs were as much representational as arbitrary, which bore an
explicit visual resemblance to the referent and were largely independent
of the rules of the syntagmatic chain. His point is that writers, thinkers
within the ‘civilised’ phonocentric cultures despise and fear their ‘roots’
and therefore hold sacrosanct the notion of phonocentricism and logos
as a guarantee against reverting to elementalism. What he either ignores
or is ignorant of is a linguistic tradition that incorporates both the ‘pluri-
dimensional’ visual symbol and the ‘order of logical time . . . the irreversible
temporality of sound’. Some poets have resurrected the primitive visualism
of signs and blended it with the sophisticated arbitrariness of linearity. If
Derrida had read a little more poetry his deconstructive legacy would have
been altered significantly: he would have been obliged to concede that
poets got there first.
In Of Grammatology, Derrida exposes a hidden contradiction in Levi
Strauss’s studies of the representational systems of the Nambikwara Indians.
Levi Strauss contended that like most primitive tribes the Nambikwara
maintained an exclusively speech-based culture with no recourse to writ-
ten record or exchange. Derrida avers that in this culture ‘writing appears
well before writing’ (p. 128). By this he means that the tribe had evolved a
silent language of signs, indicating routes through the jungle which they
would scratch into the earth. Often these would be double-edged – that
is offering two different routes – or ambiguous but their consistent fea-
ture was the intermeshing of signifier and referent. Objects and signs
were blended and the arbitrary conventions of syntactic linearity which
govern speech and writing in ‘civilised’ culture were subverted by the use
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 191
At the outset let me say that I don’t consider linear and visual antino-
mial. The line is, and always has been both visual and temporal, appear-
ing as radial, vertical, diagonal, as well as horizontal. (Cobbing and
Upton, 1998)
The Sliding Scale and Recent Literary History 193
Conclusion
from a poem must succeed in drawing at least two of these terms into a
state of co-presence; not a condition of harmony or balance but a state of
tension in which one pattern or condition will function as a challenge, a
supplement or a counterpoint, but will not displace the other:
Ear Eye
Sound Silence
Speech Writing
Phoneme Grapheme
The Voice The Text
Temporality Spatial Juxtaposition
Presence Sign
Epireader Graphireader
Movement Stasis
Ideational Pattern Materiality
Symbol Icon
Lisible Scriptible
The Poet The Reader
Vocalization Inscription
To demonstrate how this diagram might be used we can test it against what
in my view is the exemplary visual text, Williams’s ‘The Corn Harvest’. We
can hear this poem and consider an artefact that consists of phonemes
strung along a temporal sequence; an epireader might read through the
indexical pattern and construct an ideational picture. The performative
voice guarantees the living presence of the poet and in a broader critical
framework we can judge the text to be lisible – the reader becomes the pas-
sive recipient of a series of undemanding impressions. But this accounts for
only half of what actually happens when we read the poem.
On the page we can discern different syntactic patterns that are locked
into the graphic format. The materiality of the graphemes generates a
polysemantic complex that will stand outside the temporality of sound and
speech. An alternative ideational pattern is inscribed within the juxtaposi-
tions of the text. It is not in itself iconic, but it engages with cognitive and
interpretative strategies that we more readily associate with representational
painting. We become both epireader and graphireader, disrupting but not
displacing the univocal presence. The text is scriptible in the sense that it
demands the interpretative activity of the reader yet it maintains a lisible
dimension of encoded meaning. The poet is both present as the speaking
voice and the creator of the graphic pattern and absent in the sense that,
196 Graphic Poetics
like the painter, he conveys a significant part of his message in silence – the
permanence of the text supplements the ephemerality of the voice.
I offer the sliding scale and this framework of oppositions as a testing
ground for readers who regard the techniques and interpretative challenges
of poems as an essential part of their enjoyment of the text. Criticism, even
in its more arcane manifestations, must attest to its origins as the formal-
ization of our more instinctive, subjective responses to literature. It tells us
something more about the text’s means of signification, how it works, how
it operates in relation to our commonplace experience of life, what relation
it bears to the known life and intentions of the author, and to the social
and aesthetic circumstances of its composition. But good literature, in my
opinion, is that which creates a tantalizing pattern of the almost known
and that which engages with our codes of interpretation, but refuses to
submit easily to their overarching control. Such a criterion is currently very
difficult to satisfy; criticism and interpretative theory are their own mas-
ters, anything can be done to everything and every interpretative problem
has its own selection of possible solutions. Visual poetry is valuable because
it re-establishes the traditional exchange between reader, text and author
as something that stands beyond the monoliths of critical theory. I have
neither the space nor the inclination to document every instance of its
ability to do so – ‘see above’. But I shall conclude with a couple of engaging
instances of what might be termed the victory of visualism.
In the 1970s a debate took place between John Searle and Jacques
Derrida on the meaning and significance of speech acts. Searle, following
J. L. Austin, argued that a promise or an assertion will be stripped of its
validity, its illocutionary force, if such a statement is made in a fictional
context, by an actor, a person in a novel or as part of the locutionary struc-
ture of a poem. Derrida, the deconstructionist, reversed the underlying
hierarchy of Austin’s and Searle’s assumptions and argued that if it were
not possible for a fictional presence to make a promise or commitment,
there could be no promises or commitments in real life: thus the fictional
statement, far from being a supplement or deviation from the ‘real’ state-
ment, could actually be regarded as the basis for ‘serious’, ‘real life’ role
playing. Visual poetry imposes an extra dimension upon this exchange
which none of the participants had considered. What if the essence, the
full validity of a promise, a statement or a claim, can be discerned only
in the absence of the speaker? We should here recall Eve’s ‘speech’ and
‘promise’ to Adam whose flaws and uncertainties can only be disclosed by
the reader who watches the language on the page. To broaden the context
to Williams’s impressions of Brueghel’s painting we find that the truth or
Conclusion 197
sincerity of his appreciative gestures can be felt only in the absence of the
poet or his representative in performance. The notion of context which
underpins the Searle-Austin-Derrida exchange suddenly becomes irrele-
vant. Context, whether fictional or real, requires iteration and presence.
So by embedding the true meaning of the statements within the material-
ity of the text, Milton and Williams cause us to reinterpret the attendant
conditions of context, speech and presence. So if visual form destabilizes
the traditional model of context, what does it put in its place as a commu-
nicative circuit that maintains the co-presence of writer and addressee?
The context of a poetic statement, promise or proposition is a fictional
simulacrum of the real world, the principal difference being that in the
former both the text and the context are constructions – the fictional text
will organize and delineate its own fictional circumstances. In a theatrical
performance the ability of the words to generate their own contextual ori-
gin is supplemented by such elements as the demeanour, the interpretative
skill and the dress of the performer and the design of the set. But in both
genres there is a distinction between the spoken words and the imagined,
or in the theatre supplied, continuum of non-linguistic events, feelings
and circumstances. Visual poetry will maintain this word–context relation
through its univocal pattern, but a more significant series of effects will be
generated by its ability to interpose context with the materiality of the text.
With Wordsworth’s image of the figure on the cliff the univocal text cre-
ates a contextual image, but this is matched by an enactment of a very simi-
lar pattern of movements within the silent configurations of the printed
poem. With Williams’s ‘Perpetuum Mobile’ the girls on the street exist as
both a mental image and as a written diagram, and Tomlinson’s ‘Lines’ cre-
ate a continuous and unresolvable tension between context (lines written
in response to the image of ploughing) and text (ploughing and writing,
furrows and lines, image and pen, blended as part of the multi-discourse
of the printed text).
In visual form the contextual experience that grants speech its trad-
itionally privileged status (presence, gesture, expression, demeanour, sta-
tus . . . everything that we perceive outside and beyond the words) is grafted
on to the textual experience. The text becomes the presence.
The writer has regained what convention would have us believe was lost
to writing. Derrida, following Rousseau, Warburton and Condillac, traces
the origins of writing to our agrarian roots:
The furrow is the line, as the ploughman traces it: the road – via rupta –
broken by the ploughshare. . . . How does the ploughman proceed?
198 Graphic Poetics
Economically. Arrived at the end of the furrow, he does not return to the
point of departure. He turns ox and plough around. And proceeds in
the opposite direction. . . . Writing by the turning of the ox – boustro-
phedon – writing by furrows was a movement in linear and phonographic
script. At the end of the line travelled from left to right, one resumes
from right to left. Why was it abandoned at a given moment by the Greeks
for example? Why did the economy of the writer (scripteur) break with
that of the ploughman? Why is the space of one not the space of the
other? (Of Grammatology, pp. 287–8)
poetry with its various manifestations and correlate critical questions has
been well documented. It exists, respectably, as a subgenre in the broader
commonwealth of verse, but it will never be treated as anything more than
a minority interest, an abberation which, at best, licences critics to specu-
late on matters like the nature of the sign and the contingencies of linguis-
tic representation. But Graphic Poetics as I term it is far more elemental
and endemic to the very process of poetic writing. It is not so much a device
as an intimation of something that makes poetry what it is, the most liter-
ary of literary forms. This leads us into a question that I broached in the
Introduction, that has attended all of my above engagements with poems,
and which I have addressed but not conclusively answered: why is it that
an element of poetic writing countenanced by figures as diverse as Milton,
Wordsworth, Eliot, Auden and Williams has gone virtually unnoticed by
the supposed spokespersons for readers of verse, the critics?
In non-poetic discourse two factors – an attendance upon the gram-
matical rules of language and a desire to despatch a particular message –
govern our journey along the syntagmatic chain. In regular poetry, other
arbitrary features of language occupy the attention of the writer. These
will not necessarily cause the poet to close a sentence, even a clause, at
the end of a line but nonetheless an awareness of factors such as iambs,
trochees, rhyme schemes and so on acts as a supplement to the writer’s
routine compositional prerogatives. Once they have decided what kind of
regular form to adopt this will provide them with a programme for how to
organize the line in relation to the progress of syntax. But what happens
when a poet dispenses with this framework or even, like Milton, the part
of it, rhyme, deemed by consensus to be its keystone? The line exists, but
it exists only as an obligatory hypothesis, something other than syntax,
but which lacks an abstract definition, a phenomenon that accompanies
the poet’s otherwise unencumbered progress through the sentence. But,
how long will it be, what shape will it take, when will it end and how does
it relate to its equally unfashionable neighbours preceding and following
it, or more intriguingly above and below it? It is at this point, I would con-
tend, that Graphics Poetics is born. Words and their relationship to each
other are no longer simply a condition of grammatical rules and nor are
they governed by a reliable framework of metre or sound pattern. At this
fissure the poet encounters something never previously accounted for in
testaments to the workings of language. The words despatched to the page
assume an intermediary state between their standard function as arbitrary
units of signification and shapes which have tactile even innate signifying
qualities. The poet, unlike Derrida’s ploughman, does not simply ‘turn’.
200 Graphic Poetics
He contemplates the shape and nature of the ‘furrow’, the line, its skewed,
perhaps obtuse relation to the progress of syntax and the intricate tap-
estry of nuances that move vertically, horizontally, diagonally across the
text and are not simply governed by the blinding logic of linearity. Recall
McCaffery: ‘The line is, and always has been both visual and temporal,
appearing as radial, vertical, diagonal, as well as horizontal.’ And Larkin:
‘the shape, the punctuation, the italics, even knowing how far you are from
the end [of the line]. Reading on the page means you can go at your own
pace, taking it in properly.’ Charles Tomlinson: ‘The true realization of
the poet’s voice comes from a blending or a marriage of the silent and the
spoken forms’. Then, of course, Williams allows us literally to watch him
negotiate the horizontal and vertical axes of the page, as he alights upon
the meaning of a word and delights in its actuality, its momentum and pro-
portions: As he and the girls,
pause sometimes . . .
and
back and
forth and back and forth
and back and forth.
The most resonant phrase comes, paradoxically, from the most conserva-
tive of these figures; Larkin’s ‘Knowing how far you are from the end [of
the line] . . . .’ Sound pattern and metre differ from the visual format of the
line in one crucial respect. While the former are in constant attendance
upon the paraphrasable essence of the words, even capable of distract-
ing us from unalloyed attention upon the sense of the poem, they neither
create nor organize patterns of meaning per se. But consider the creative
moment evoked so vividly and succinctly by Larkin. You are constructing
a sentence, and even if you have not eschewed all of the appurtenances of
regular verse – and a considerable number of the poets discussed above
do not – you are aware of a far more invigorating opportunity to create an
effect both unique to poetry and elusive of the powers of critics to docu-
ment it or properly describe its mechanics. You are writing two versions of
the same sentence simultaneously. The standard regulations and conven-
tions that enable us to place one word after another in the construction
of clauses, subclauses and sentences concern us of course, but so does the
Conclusion 201
forest a hundred miles from any human being does, so silently. When our
eye meets the page two patterns of movement – silent and phonocentric,
successive and static, linear and geometric – disrupt our routine habits of
analysis and naturalization. We assume that the printed text is dead matter
revivable only through our vocalization of it or more likely our imaginings
of its vocal dimension. But against this it becomes possessed of a life of its
own, opening up a dynamic between two channels of meaning, inscribed in
the same imprint that our critical and interpretative resources have not so
far equipped us to even acknowledge, let alone deal with. Deconstruction
has been treated, too generously, as a form of truth-telling about criticism,
an exposure of how naturalization in all its forms is a falsification of the far
more complex dialogue between the reader and the text. Graphic Poetics in
this regard pre-empts deconstruction and given that it is a feature of poetry
itself, some of it excellent poetry, is far more agreeable to read.
Notes
Chapter 2
1
From The Reader in the Text, S. R. Suleiman and Inge Crosman (eds), Princeton,
1980, p. 50.
2
‘Closing Statement: Linguistics and Poetics’, Thomas A. Sebeok (ed.), Style in
Language, p. 358.
3
Fundamentals of Language, pp. 95–6.
4
Structuralist Poetics, p. 163.
5
‘Structural Metrics’, Essays on the Language of Literature, S. Chatman and S. R. Levin
(eds), Boston, 1967, p. 156.
6
See, for example, Rudolf Arnheim’s Visual Thinking, 1970.
7
‘Syntax and Music in Paradise Lost’, The Living Milton, F. Kermode (ed.), 1960,
pp. 70–1.
Chapter 3
1
Pictures from Brueghel and other poems, p. 60
Chapter 4
1
Reprinted in The William Carlos Williams Reader, M. Rosenthal (ed.), 1966, pp. 406–9
Chapter 5
1
Preface to Some Imagist Poets 1916, reprinted in Imagist Poetry, Peter Jones (ed.),
1972, pp. 139–40.
2
From T. E. Hulme’s Further Speculations, Samuel Hynes (ed.), 1955, p. 69.
3
Preface to Some Imagist Poets, pp. 138–40.
4
From ‘A Lecture on Modern Poetry’, reprinted in Michael Roberts, 77 E.
Hulme, 1938, pp. 269–70.
5
‘A Lecture on Modern Poetry’, p. 270.
6
Imagist Poetry, p. 133.
204 Notes
Chapter 7
1
From Concrete Poetry. A World View, Mary Ellen Solt (ed.), 1968, pp. 91–3. The
poems by Morgan, Williams, de Vree and Hamilton Finlay will be found in Solt’s
Concrete Poetry.
2
Thomas A. Clark’s ‘River’ will be found in Mindplay. An Anthology of British Concrete
Poetry, John J. Sharkey (ed.), 1971.
Chapter 8
1
The William Carlos Williams Reader, pp. 408–9.
2
‘A Note on Poetry’, from A Quick Graph: Collected Notes and Essays, Donald Allen
(ed.), San Francisco, 1970, p. 27.
3
‘Trail Camp at Bear Valley, 9000 Feet. Northern Sierra – White Bone and Threads
of Snowmelt Water’, in Earth House Hold, New York, 1969.
4
Walter Sutton, ‘A Conversation with Denise Levertov’, Minnesota Review, vol. 5,
1965, pp. 331–32.
5
Reprinted in To Criticise the Critic, 1965, p. 187.
6
Reprinted in On Poetry and Poets, 1957, pp. 157–8.
7
TLS, 27 September 1928, p. 687.
8
From the BBC Radio 3 programme ‘The Composed Voice’, 14 July 1981, first
quoted in Eric Griffiths’s, The Printed Voice of Victorian Poetry, 1989, pp. 66–7.
9
In Concrete Poetry. A World View, Mary Ellen Solt (ed.), p. 242.
10
Williams, Pictures from Brueghel, pp. 126, 157, 156–7; Jonson, Three Comedies:
Volpone, The Alchemist, Bartholomew Fair, Penguin, 1966, pp. 161, 163, 248.
11
Published in The London Review of Books, vol. 10, no. 22, December 1988 p. 8.
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Index