“Copywriting
should always be precise, true, purposely literal. Poetry should always be
ambiguous—i.e., capable of being read different ways at different levels. You
work for compression but you're building a skyscraper on your little plot. Obviously,
I don't mean copywriting should be devoid of humor, nuance, or colloquialism, but
I think it ought to give the reader as honest an account of the good points of
the product or service as possible, and without equivocation or weaseling.”
By
1972, Sissman has published three books of poems – Dying: An Introduction (1968), Scattered
Returns (1969) and Pursuit of Honor
(1971). Seven years earlier he had been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma and
in another four years the cancer would kill him. No mention of the disease
appears in the interview. Lasson asks if writing ad copy and poetry are in any
way similar, and Sissman answers:
“You
bet! Copywriting is evanescent and poetry is, the
poet hopes like hell, perduring, but there are a lot of similarities otherwise.
Copywriting teaches you to say exactly what you mean in the fewest possible
words the first time around and under pressure of time [as does journalism]. This is
a valuable lesson for the poet. The only other main difference I can think of is
that in advertising you’re externalizing by using your own tone of voice as the
carrier or radio wave to reach the ear of the prospect with the facts about the
product; in poetry you use the same tone of voice to internalize or express
your own reaction to character and event to the ear of the reader.”
I’m
impressed by Sissman’s utter lack of defensiveness in discussing his job in
advertising. According to the kneejerk Manicheanism of the “poBiz” and its camp
followers, advertising and poetry are matter and antimatter. They cannot
coexist and each betrays the other. That one of our best poets also wrote ad
copy for a living (one would love to know which campaigns he worked on) says
less about “selling out” than it does about a gift for language and pride of
workmanship. Asked what advertising does to language, the poet replies:
“Nothing,
except, sometimes, to put the laxer grammar of spoken English into written
English, to the horror of assorted purists and other nice-Nelly busybodies.”
Lasson
asks about the current state of poetry (John Berryman had committed suicide on
Jan. 7, two days before the date on that issue of Book World). Sissman replies:
“Poetry
is in a mess. Millions of schools are all pressing their dubious claims; about
which nobody cares except their own disciples. Lots of fruitless, angry arguing
and goring
of other people's oxen. Hope lies in a few genuinely talented people of various
schools—or no school--who follow the nose of their own gift. Yes, most kids are more
visual, less verbal, which may result in more great films [The Godfather premiered two months later], less great verse. But
that’s OK, too. I don't think that verse in general or the English verse
tradition in particular are about to die unless the whole human race is. Which
is more than likely, of course.”
Marianne
Moore would die a month later and W.H. Auden the following year, but Sissman,
Anthony Hecht, Edgar Bowers, Philip Larkin, Richard Wilbur, Geoffrey Hill, Donald
Justice, Helen Pinkerton, J.V. Cunningham, Elizabeth Bishop and Thom Gunn were
still at work. I remember that time as very good for poetry and literature in
general. On the day Sissman’s interview appeared, the New York Times Book Review published
Israel Shenker’s interview with Vladimir Nabokov. Shenker asked: “What are the
literary virtues you seek to attain--and how?” and Nabokov answered:
“Mustering
the best words, with every available lexical, associative, and rhythmic
assistance, to express as closely as possible what one wants to express.”
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