'Perhaps Even Pleasure in Difference'

“The voice of his poems, though sometimes marred by an affectation of toughness, is severe, sardonic, and bruising.” 

Who might be the subject of this evaluation? Hardly a recipe for poetry awards and grants today. Jonathan Swift would be a respectable guess. No political pieties, sensitive introspection or lines that read like flaccid prose. Irving Howe is speaking of his friend and fellow faculty member at Brandeis, J.V. Cunningham. In A Margin of Hope: An Intellectual Autobiography (1982), Howe devotes two out of his 382 pages to Cunningham but concludes by calling him “the one colleague whom I regarded as my teacher.” I have a copy of Cunningham’s Tradition and Poetic Structure (1960) inscribed “For Irving, Aug. 29, 1960, J.V.C.”

Attentively reading Cunningham’s poetry and prose could constitute a first-rate education, one largely absent from today’s universities. Howe writes:

 

“Prickly, contentious, rudely charming, he was a determined plebian. If I had a New York dress presser for a father, he had a Montana carpenter, and we both felt warmth for the unions to which our fathers had belonged, both despised the genteel pretensions of many academics. Cunningham was not an easy man to be near. Inner torments could make him savage (as they could make me sullen). The way to preserve a friendship with him was to keep a certain distance.”

 

This rings true to life. Nor will readers of Cunningham’s stringently witty poetry, written in the classical plain style reminiscent of Ben Jonson, be surprised by Howe’s characterization. Here’s an untitled poem from Trivial, Vulgar, and Exalted (1959):

 

“I had gone broke, and got set to come back,

And lost, on a hot day and a fast track,

On a long shot at long odds, a black mare

By Hatred out of Envy by Despair.”

 

Cunningham published no mediocre poems. I rank him among the finest American poets, with Dickinson, Robinson, Eliot, Frost and Wilbur. Howe describes him as “an intellectual opponent of romanticism [who] struggled in his poetry, as in his life, with an ineradicably romantic temperament.” This is shrewd criticism and character analysis, and Howe goes on to praise the example Cunningham set for him as a critic, teacher, scholar and human being:

 

“Between Cunningham and me there was an enormous gap in experience, temperament, ideas. Yet we worked easily together, amused and pleased that we could. Being professional himself, he honored me with the presumption that I too could become professional. I learned, by being with him, the value of scraping against a mind utterly unlike one’s own, so that finally there could emerge between our two minds a conditional peace, perhaps even pleasure in difference.” 

 

I find it difficult to choose a favorite poem by Cunningham but I’m partial to To What Strangers, What Welcome (1964), subtitled A Sequence of Short Poems. In his essay “Several Kinds of Short Poem” the poet, who grew up in Montana, writes:

 

“The poems would deal with the American West, that vast spiritual region from Great Falls, Montana, to El Paso, Texas; from Fort Riley, Kansas, to the sinks of Kansas; and with the California Coast, another and perhaps less spiritual region. And the poems would relate some sort of illicit and finally terminated love affair. And there would be a fusion of the feeling in the personal relationship and the feeling for the West and the Coast.”

 

The sequence consists of fifteen poems. It’s not a travelogue but an elliptical narrative which he sketches in the essay like this: “A traveler drives west; he falls in love; he comes home.” The fractured story is grim and occasionally squalid, more film noir than happy romance, as in the sixth poem:

 

“It was in Vegas. Celibate and able

I left the silver dollars on the table

And tried the show. The black-out, baggy pants,

Of course, and then this answer to romance:

Her ass twitching as if it had the fits,

Her gold crotch grinding, her athletic tits,

One clock, the other counter clockwise twirling.

It was enough to stop a man from girling.”

 

It’s Cunningham’s correlation of the vast, uninhabited landscape and the narrator’s fraught emotional life that makes To What Strangers, What Welcome so compelling. Here is the first poem in the sequence, summarized by Timothy Steele as an “intimation of an as-yet-unmet lover”:

 

“I drive Westward. Tumble and loco weed

Persist. And in the vacancies of need,

The leisure of desire, whirlwinds a face

As luminous as love, lost as this place.”

 

Cunningham was born on August 23, 1911, and died on this date, March 30, in 1985.

 

[The books to get are The Poems of J.V. Cunningham (Swallow Press/Ohio University Press, ed. Timothy Steele, 1997) and The Complete Essays of J.V. Cunningham, Wiseblood Books, 2024). Also, see the class notes kept by the late D.G. Myers when he was a student of Cunningham.]

'To Sparkle'

Almost fourteen years ago a friend gave us two anonymous bulbs about the size and color of a Bosc pear. I planted them in the front garden between the pine and the lantana and waited. One disappeared, never to bloom. The other, like crocuses in the North, is our reliable harbinger of spring: 

It’s an amaryllis, with a blossom the color of a pomegranate. The name derives from a shepherdess in Virgil’s Eclogues, from the Greek amarysso, “to sparkle,” though my first thought is always of Marian the Librarian’s instructions to her piano student in The Music Man: “Now don’t dawdle, Amaryllis.” At a more elevated level I remember Milton’s lines in “Lycidas”:

 

“To sport with Amaryllis in the shade

Or with the tangles Neaera’s hair?”

 

So each year around this time I read Milton’s poem again, just as I reread the Christmas chapters in Pickwick Papers each December and the description of a seder in Isaac Rosenfeld’s novel Passage from Home (1946) around Passover. I confess I don’t much care for the color of the flower. It’s too emphatic, almost gaudy. I’m more of a pastel partisan. What I admire is the flower’s reliability, self-reliance (no human care required) and simplicity of design: two leaves, stem, flower. More recently I found a reference to the flower in Tennyson’s “The Daisy,” set in Italy:

 

“What slender campanili grew

By bays, the peacock’s neck in hue;

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches

A milky-bell’d amaryllis blew.”

'Conditionally, If It Were Lawful'

Another foul-tempered screed written by someone unhappy with – well, everything. His tantrum is omnidirectional but his favorite punching bag seems to be children and the family. You know, “sentimentality,” “bourgeoise values,” etc. I’ll speak as one man, for no one else: without my wife and sons I too would have drifted selfishly, uncommitted to anything, terminally ungrateful, making others miserable, contributing nothing, not even to myself. I need an implicit vow of responsibility to others to keep me focused. I thought of Dr. Johnson writing in his diary: 

“March 28, 1753. I kept this day as the anniversary of my Tetty’s death, with prayer and tears in the morning. In the evening I prayed for her conditionally, if it were lawful.”

 

That Johnson loved his wife, Elizabeth Porter Johnson (1689-1752), known to him always as “Tetty,” seems indisputable. When they married in 1735, he was twenty-five and she was forty-six. Tetty is said to have told her daughter after first meeting Johnson, “That is the most sensible man I ever met.”

 

Sniggering began almost immediately after the wedding. In his biography of Johnson, W. Jackson Bate notes that when older women married younger men in eighteenth-century England, the male partner was judged “an unaggressive type of man—rather mousy, dependent, perhaps slightly infantile. Certainly the idea of such a marriage did not fit one’s notion of Johnson, with his huge, unwieldy frame, his immense physical strength, his courage and rhinocerine laughter, his uncanny incisiveness of mind.” Yet Johnson told his friend Topham Beauclerk: “It was a love marriage upon both sides.”

 

Macaulay portrayed Tetty as “a short, fat, coarse woman, painted half an inch thick, dressed in gaudy colours, and fond of exhibiting provincial airs and graces.” His verdict was influential and remains so, particularly among those offended by Johnson’s eminence. Defaming a man in matters of love and sex is a favorite tactic of the petty and unimaginative.

 

Johnson composed the inscription on Tetty’s tomb: Formosae, cultae, ingeniosae, piae – “beautiful, elegant, talented, dutiful.” John Hawkins says in his 1787 biography of Johnson: “The melancholy, which seized Johnson, on the death of his wife, was not, in degree, such as usually follows the deprivation of near relations and friends; it was of the blackest and deepest kind.” In 1764, twelve years after his wife’s death, Johnson wrote in a diary:

 

“Having before I went to bed composed the foregoing meditation and the following prayer, I tried to compose myself but slept unquietly. I rose, took tea, and prayed for resolution and perseverance. Thought on Tetty, dear poor Tetty, with my eyes full.”

 

The closing phrase in the excerpt from Johnson’s diary quoted above, “If it were lawful,” is explained by John Wain in his Johnson biography:

 

“Johnson’s version of the Christian religion did not admit of any notion of rushing naked and howling into the presence of the Creator. He seems to have envisaged a majestic decorum even in one’s supplications for mercy. The Church of England did not have a precise ruling on whether the dead could still benefit by the prayers of the living or whether, having lived their lives and reaped their reward, they were beyond reach. And since there was no definite line laid down by orthodoxy Johnson declined to take the decision on himself. His prayers for Tetty, though doubtless fervent, were ‘conditional.’”

'Passion and Intellect So Closely Allied'

“The vocabulary of science is sometimes arcane, uncouth, and even downright ugly. There ought to be prizes for poets who can use the term quantum correctly and the word xylocarp gracefully.” 

I’m no poet but as a retired science writer I confess to having used the words stochastic, exosome, endogenous and throughput with a straight face. That still leaves me feeling a little guilty. Clarity is the prime virtue in prose. What you’re saying has to be readily understood, without muddle or ambiguity. That’s where things get complicated and the nagging question of audience makes another appearance.

 

I was employed by an engineering school at a university and usually wrote about faculty and student research. Many of my readers were trained as scientists and engineers, long familiar with the specialized jargon of their trades. To a bioengineer or applied mathematician, the words I listed above are probably Dick-and-Jane transparent. But the bigger audience was more mysterious. High-school kids shopping for a university, along with their parents, were reading this stuff, among others. In addition, some arcane words have no readily defined synonyms. I was stuck sometimes with the rarified argot, especially stochastic. When I would ask a faculty member for clarification of a usage, some became tongue-tied. Why redefine the self-evident? The perplexity became even more complicated if my source spoke English as a second or third language. Some of them never learned demotic American English.

 

The passage at the top was written by the late poet and novelist Fred Chappell in a review, “‘A Million Million Suns’: Poetry and Science,” published in the Fall 1995 issue of The Georgia Review. Quantum is an enormously slippery word with dozens of legitimate uses. It’s rooted in the Latin for “quantity” and entered English in Shakespeare’s time, though he never used it. Xylocarp refers to fruit with a woody outer shell, such as the coconut. Chappell suggests an explanation for the apparent incompatibility of poetry and science:

 

“Poetry celebrates visual appearance while disciplines like chemistry and particle physics plunge below appearance into a universe often impossible to visualize, a void punctuated by brief pulses and intermittent bleeps of electromagnetic energy. There is, besides, the dread problem of accuracy: those of us who are forced to learn our science from popular texts, films, and lectures are likely to garble details and overleap stages of thought, impatient to come to the grandiose images of astronomy and the intriguing paradoxes of subatomic theory.”

 

Chappell finds the four poetry collections under review at least partially disappointing. He has kind words to say about Louise McNeill’s posthumously published Fermi’s Buffalo (1994) and quotes lines from her “Neutron Stars” –

 

“Burned and black to the neutron bone,

Dwarf stars stand in the night alone--

Dead black stars with their firestorms still--

I am burning and growing chill.”

 

-- and likens them to Walter Savage Landor’s “Dying Speech of an Old Philosopher.” Best of all, Chappell comes up with an interesting suggestion for poets and other writers:

 

“The history of science would seem a highly advantageous field of subject matter for poetry. Here as in few other areas of human endeavor are passion and intellect so closely allied, and almost no other kind of history presents such clear and verifiable outlines. There is a colorful attractiveness about even outmoded or discarded scientific concepts such as the aether, phlogiston, light pressure, Ptolemaic astronomy, and so forth. In the efforts of science, the differences between folly and honest error are especially striking, and our intellectual strivings are stained with pathos and humor in equal measure. If Montaigne were alive today, I think he might become a historiographer of science.”

'Zola Came to See Me Today'

There’s a category of reading I think of as functional or expedient. I associate it with appointments where I know I will have to wait – doctor, dentist, auto repairs. It’s usually a book I’m not currently reading and never one I haven’t read before. I pull it from the shelf just as I’m about to leave the house. It needs to be somewhat fragmentary; that is, made up of discrete bits of text, readily digestible fragments, such as letters, brief essays, a diary. Never a novel or history or anything with a lengthy narrative. Even short stories are too long. With an uncertain amount of time waiting ahead of me, I look for brevity and solidity – something that will consume my time but not waste it. 

While recently waiting to have an MRI performed I browsed an old favorite, Pages from the Goncourt Journal (trans. Robert Baldick, 1962) by Edmond and Jules de Goncourt. The brothers started their account of Parisian life in 1851, resulting in the novelty of a record of social and literary events recorded in the first-person plural. Following Jules’ death in 1870, Edmond continued writing the journal until a few weeks before his own death in 1896.

The brothers are gifted gossips and name-droppers. Among their acquaintances are Flaubert, Maupassant, Gautier, Baudelaire, Degas, Rodin and Saint-Beuve. Jealousy and self-promotion are constant themes. Their dealings with Emile Zola are especially complicated and interesting. While recognizing Zola’s talents, they are convinced he had borrowed his style and subject matter from their own jointly written novels. Here is a passage dated December 14, 1880 (written by Edmond):

“Zola came to see me today. He came with that gloomy, haggard air which is characteristic of his way of entering a room. That man of forty really is a pitiful sight; he looks older than I do. . . .

“Life really is cleverly arranged so that nobody is happy. Here is a man whose names echoes round the world. Who sells a hundred thousand copies of every book he writes, who has perhaps caused a greater stir in his lifetime than any other author, and yet, with his sickly constitution and his melancholy state of mind, he is unhappier than the most abject of failures.”

Goncourt confirms my impression that grousing, an unbuttoned fit of complaining, really is quite funny – a grown man whining like a spoiled schoolboy. Here are the brothers writing on July 23, 1864, unknowingly expressing an accurate self-prophecy: “A book is never a masterpiece: it becomes one. Genius is the talent of a dead man.”

Like Maupassant and Daudet, Jules died of tertiary syphilis. He was thirty-nine and died on June 20, 1870. For a brief time after his brother’s death, Edmond stopped keeping the journal but changed his mind and resumed by writing about his brother’s agonizing, protracted madness and death. These entries are the most powerful in the entire journal. There’s no gossip or backbiting. This is dated April 18:

“To witness, day by day, the destruction of everything that once went to mark out this young man—distinguished among all others—to see him emptying the salt-cellar over his fish, holding his fork in both hands, eating like a child, is too much for me to bear. 

"So it is not enough that this busy mind should stop producing, should cease creating, should be inhabited by nothingness. The human being had to be stricken in these qualities of grace and elegance which I imagined to be inaccessible to sickness, in these gifts of the man who is well born, well bred, well brought up. And finally, as in the old vengeances of the gods, all the aristocratic virtues in him, all the superior graces inherent so to speak in his skin, had to be degraded to the level of animality.”

William Maxwell wrote to Sylvia Townsend Warner in a letter dated December 30, 1958:

“Someone gave me a copy of a paper-backed one-volume edition of the journals of the brothers Goncourt, and I am beside myself with pleasure over it. Every night I get through one page, and then sit and hold it, all of it, in my mind, with rapture. At such times, knowing, alas, that it isn’t true, I say to myself that all I ask of life is the privilege of being able to read.”

 

[You can find the letter in The Element of Lavishness: Letters of Sylvia Townsend Warner and William Maxwell 1938-1978, 2001).

'Till Death Itself Is Less Than Change'

Edwin Arlington Robinson remembered his brother Herman’s death in 1909 from the combined effects of tuberculosis, alcoholism and poverty, and feared dying in the crowded ward of a public hospital. About the blunt reality of death itself he was more sanguine. In January 1935, friends secured him a room in the recently opened New York Hospital in Manhattan. Robinson, sixty-five, suspected he was suffering from colitis and perhaps ulcers. Tests were inconclusive and his doctor moved him into his own home. Back in the hospital on January 28, a surgeon performed an exploratory abdominal operation and discovered that inoperable pancreatic cancer had metastasized to his lungs. Friends were divided over whether he had been informed by the doctors of the diagnosis.

 

On March 25, Robinson dictated his final letter, to his niece Marie Robinson. Typically, he was more concerned about George Burnham, his oldest and closest friend from their time at Harvard. He writes:

 

“I seem to be a fixture in this place, until my rather obstinate phlebitis disappears. Perhaps I have never made it quite clear to you that I have been wrestling with a duodenal stasis, an inflamed pancreas, and phlebitis -- which should be enough for one visitation.”

All of his life Robinson had been supported, financially and otherwise, by friends, including President Theodore Roosevelt, who admired his poems. He had one vocation and was qualified for only one job: poet. “Robinson need not have feared dying alone or neglected,” Scott Donaldson writes in his biography of the poet. “Many friends and admirers came to see him in the hospital. His nurses and doctors felt themselves in the presence of a remarkable human being.” Interns and residents were eager to visit him, this American poet who had won three Pulitzer Prizes.

 

In 1956, the poet Winfield Townley Scott published a brief remembrance of his final visit to see Robinson: “And speaking of what so many critics had found to be a ‘philosophy of failure’ in his poetry, he said, ‘I’ve always rather liked the queer, odd sticks of men, that’s all. The fat, sleek, successful alderman isn’t interesting.’ He smiled and, said again, ‘He isn’t interesting.’”

 

Robinson died on April 6, 1935. The poet J.V. Cunningham described him as “a man almost without biography,” adding: “And he knew we do not really know about others; we do not know about him.” Inevitably, when thinking about Robinson’s last days I think about my brother and his final weeks in the hospital and hospice. Three doctors called me into the hall and confirmed what we already suspected. The cancer, first diagnosed in his esophagus, had metastasized to his lungs, liver and cerebrum. That day they moved him to hospice. For five days he was unconscious and then he died.

 

Among Robinson’s abiding themes is stoical endurance. My brother never complained. Robinson writes in “Hillcrest” (The Man Against the Sky, 1916):

 

“Who knows to-day from yesterday

May learn to count no thing too strange:

Love builds of what Time takes away,

Till Death itself is less than Change.”

'But There Is So Much Beauty'

School field trips to the Cleveland Museum of Art were annual events beginning in third grade. I don’t recall these visits being connected to the curriculum. I never took an art class. Rather, they date from an age when “culture” was judged “good for you,” like the bookmobile and Leonard Bernstein’s “Young People’s Concerts” on television. 

At the museum we were on our own. There were no guided tours. I remember especially liking the work of two American artists – George Bellows and Grant Wood. Once, in high school, I was browsing in the museum bookshop with another student I didn’t know well. He surprised me by buying a book that looked serious, by a writer unknown to me – The Sense of Beauty (1896) by George Santayana, the philosopher’s first published work in prose. I have since read the slender volume several times and have always remembered Santayana’s definition of beauty as “objectified pleasure.”

 

The work that in my mind is inexorably linked to the Spaniard’s idea is not a poem or novel (not even Nabokov) but a piece of music: Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédie No. 1.” It most closely for me possesses the notion of beauty as consolation. To put it crudely, a great work of art in any medium is a comfort. It redeems much of life, the parts that are sad, painful or ugly. I understand that beauty is often discredited today as something ephemeral, a waste of time. I can’t imagine life without a sense of beauty. This passage is taken from Santayana’s chapter titled “Form”:  

 

“Whenever beauty is really seen and loved, it has a definite embodiment: the eye has precision, the work has style, and the object has perfection. The kind of perfection may indeed be new; and if the discovery of new perfections is to be called romanticism, then romanticism is the beginning of all aesthetic life. But if by romanticism we mean indulgence in confused suggestion and in the exhibition of turgid force, then there is evidently need of education, of attentive labour, to disentangle the beauties so vaguely felt, and give each its adequate embodiment.”

 

Santayana came back to me when I encountered this sentence in an interview with Timothy Steele: “Life can be heartbreaking, but there is so much beauty.”