I'll be glad when I've written my last poem and I can put this behind me

I'll be glad when I've written my last poem and I can put this behind me

Stephen Morrissey

I've been writing poems since I was fifteen years old, over a half century of writing. Writing poems was never a choice or a decision, it was a calling. Where does the "call" come from? It comes from the soul.

----------------------

The "call" to poetry came to me in a dream that told me to write down what had happened in my life or my life would be forgotten; waking after the dream I knew that to forget meant to lose my inner being. It is not just writing poetry that was a part of the call, it was also writing a journal and I began page one of my journal on January 14th, 1965; a few months later I began writing poems. Writing my journal and writing poems was a gift to me from the unconscious mind, it began with the dream.

----------------------

First you write the single poem and then a lot of poems, and then you gather these poems into a book, and then you have several books and that is one's body of work. If this is your calling then what you are doing is fulfilling your destiny.

----------------------

My poetry is concerned with soul making and it is also soul making itself; soul making is concerned with realizing one's potential as a person, with expressing the deeper meaning of one's life.

----------------------

The unconscious mind has a proclivity to wholeness. Whether in dreams or day dreams or writing poems or other forms of artistic creativity, we are driven to wholeness. That is the basis of my writing, when I speak of soul making I am also referring to wholeness, life affirmation, and healthy-mindedness.

----------------------

I write poems because writing has been a calling for me and one ignores a calling at risk to one's integrity as a human being. You can ignore many things and not damage your inner being but you can't ignore a calling; ignoring a calling is like having a limb amputated; no, it's worse than that, it's like amputating one of one's own limbs.

----------------------

I've been fairly passive in life but that may be because I am also introverted. It may also be because I knew all along what I wanted to do in life, and that was to write poems. Whatever poems I've written have been the result of having to write them; indeed, I had no choice but to write. I have been driven to write, but what drove me? What drove me was the urgency of finding meaning and wholeness in my life, of affirming life.

----------------------

Writing poems is what I've done with my life. It wasn't my choice since writing poems was a calling. It came to me, not me to it, and if the writing ended this afternoon I wouldn't care. Now I welcome my final years. I've been along for the journey, not in the driver's seat. I've been an observer and not much of an organizer or initiator of events. But I'm getting old and need a rest. In truth, I'll be glad when I've written my last poem and I can put this behind me.

Some Notes on Poetry and Soul (edited and revised)

Many of C.G. Jung’s psychological concepts and related interests—for instance, shadow, archetype, symbolism, alchemy, animus and anima, mythology, the collective unconscious, and so on—are also interests of many poets. The major difference between poetry and psychology is that poetry is the voice of the human soul, while Jungian psychology tries to explain how the soul works; most other schools of psychology don't acknowledge the existence of the soul.

----------------

Poetry and psychology are two very different disciplines. The Irish poet, Patrick Kavanaugh, writes in one of his poems, “He knew that posterity has no use/ For anything but the soul…” Kavanaugh’s poems resonate for us because we recognize in them, as we do in all great poetry and poets, someone who speaks to our inner being. We can tell if a poet is genuine or not, inflated or not, and if the poet’s work is an authentic expression of the soul. We resonate to the authentic expression of the inner being of a fellow human being. Great poetry is an expression of “where psyche is leading one.” This phrase, from one of James Hollis’s books, that we need to find “where psyche leads us,” is the quest for an authentic life, an expression of where soul will lead us if only we follow.

----------------

C.G. Jung’s comments on the relationship of the collective unconscious and poetry in Modern Man in Search of a Soul are worth referring to in relation to poetry, they also help explain something of the importance of Patrick Kavanaugh’s poetry.

----------------

Great poetry draws its strength from the life of mankind, and we completely miss its meaning if we try to derive it from personal factors. Whenever the collective unconscious becomes a living experience and is brought upon the conscious outlook of an age, this event is a creative act which is of importance to everyone living at that age. A work of art is produced that contains what may truthfully be called a message to generations of men. 
                                                                                           --C.G. Jung
----------------

James Hillman’s “idea of psychopoesis” is also important; Hillman suggests that a poem is always at the heart of things. Depth psychology is referred to as soul making; however, poetry doesn't "make" the soul, it reveals the soul. One of the concerns of both poetry and depth psychology is the human soul: the intention of depth psychology is to unfold the complexity of a person’s life so that it can be better understood, and perhaps placed in a mythopoetic context; the poet’s intention, also to do with the soul, is to write poetry that is authentic to his or her soulful vision.

----------------

Some poets are wounded healers; however, these wounds may also be the source of the poet’s creativity and, as such, something that he or she may not want to give up. Poetry isn’t therapy— poetry is a form of art—but as anyone who reads literature knows, poetry can have a healing and transformative quality.

----------------

The intention of poet and psychologist is substantially different; the difference is that while poetry is an expression of the soul, psychology speaks about the soul if it mentions the soul at all. The two disciplines should not be conflated or confused; we need to remember that poetry is the oldest art form while psychology is about a hundred years old and, in some ways, it is still in its infancy. With this perspective in mind, we need to re-evaluate the importance of poetry and remember its relationship to soul.

----------------

                                                          Edited and revised on 23 March 2018

                                                          Stephen Morrissey

William Carlos Williams: Experiment in Autobiography

From last summer's reading: in I Wanted to Write a Poem, The Autobiography of the Works of a Poet (1958) William Carlos Williams discusses each of his many books with some additional commentary on his life. When he was sixteen or seventeen Williams had a cardiac event and during his convalescence he began to read and then write poetry. Towards the end of the book he writes: "Among the younger poets, I should like to pay tribute to Irving Layton, who seems to me the most accomplished writer of verse in Canada who has come to my attention in the past year." He also discusses his greatest work, Paterson, and complains about some negative reviews by Randall Jarrell and Marianne Moore... Poets have long memories. Do people still read Williams' fiction? Personally, it never interested me, but most fiction doesn't interest me.

Indigenous Poems and Stories from Quebec

Here is my review, published in The Malahat Review, issue 197, winter 2016:

Indigenous Poems and Stories from Quebec

Languages of Our Land, Indigenous Poems and Stories from Quebec,

Langues de Notre Terre, Poèmes et Récits Autochtones du Québec 

Susan Ouriou, ed., and Christelle Morelli, trans., 

Banff Centre

Banff, 2014

I

f you read Languages of Our Land / Langues de Notre Terre with any preconceptions about Indigenous writing, then you will be surprised by these twelve writers from Quebec; they are all unique and talented voices. All of these authors write in French and for the most part they live either north of or in the Quebec City region.

            I suspect that many readers of this book will be English-speaking. What might be interesting for them is to read the English translation and the French text together. Don’t just ignore the original text; even with thirty-year-old high-school French you can benefit from this reading. With no offense to Christelle Morelli, who translated this book into English, you will see the limitation of translation. There is an almost ineffable quality to a text in its original language that can elude even the best translator. For instance, here is the beginning of Mélina Vassiliou’s wonderful poem “Birthing/Writing.” In English the text is flat: “birthing / writing // writing / my future.” But in the original French you have the wonderful sound of the words, as Mélina Vassiliou wrote them; they have a vigour not found in the English translation. Here is the same passage in French: “progéniture / écriture // écriture / mon futur.” These are powerful words in French, and you can get the full force of the words by reading them out loud several times, “écriture / mon futur”—“écriture / mon futur.” It becomes mantra-like, an inspiring motto reminding poets that the profundity of our existence lies in communicating our vision, it is our present and our future.

            In “Roadblock 138–Innu Resistance,” the Innu poet Réal Junior Leblanc asks, “How can we / defend our heritage / and our children’s future / against the moneyed giants?” I used to live near the New York state border on Route 138, the highway that Leblanc refers to. It is mostly a secondary highway that runs its 1400-kilometre length slightly diagonally east and west through country and city across the province of Quebec. In some ways, this road is an asphalt soul of the province connecting, linking, joining people from north to south. I am reminded of the Mohawk blockade of the Mercier Bridge, on Route 138 as it enters Montreal, back in 1990, and the reaction of the majority of the population against this manifestation. Any answer for Leblanc’s question, “how can we defend our heritage?” is both difficult and complicated; however, Leblanc writes, “I weep / for all the rivers / they will divert / for all the forests / they will plunder / for all the lands / they will flood / for all the mountains / they will raze // To them, I will say always / from the depths of my soul / No.”

            It might be difficult to maintain a “No” when the force of modernity and so-called progress surround one. So much is political in Quebec: French, English, First Nations. We who live here know that our identity is in the language, or languages, one speaks; it is our endless conversation, our endless dance. Even though writing in French, Manon Nolin, in her poem “The Land of My Language,” is referring to her Innu-aimun—her Innu language:

           

                                    Roots of our ancestral lands
                                    a word, a language
                                    that of my ancestors
                                    bear my promised land

                                    The language of my cradle
                                    becomes my land
                                    and so the territory of my tongue
                                    remains my life’s Innu-aimun.

            If poetry is the voice of the human soul, as I believe it is, then these Indigenous writers are the voice of the soul of their community. As editor Susan Ouriou writes in her Introduction, they bring to us a “reinterpretation of history and a rediscovery of spirit.” There is so much of interest in Languages of Our Land / Langues de Notre Terre that I regret not being able to discuss each author in some detail. However, perhaps the poet Johanne Laframboise speaks for all of the writers in this book when she writes, “One cannot kill / poetry // it withstands all / for us // we owe it to ourselves / to be poets / in this century” (“Emergence”). “One cannot kill / poetry” is a statement of survival and transformation and a wonderful affirmation of the creative spirit. These writers bear witness to their vision and their community in this excellent anthology.

Poetry as place, history, soul

I wrote these notes before a reading at the Visual Arts Center in Westmount, QC, on 17 October 2017:

Poets aren't nomads, we all come from somewhere; and this "somewhere" is our psychic center, our home, the place we identify with, the place where we have a history. Personally, place is very important to me—I think it is essential in poetry—and I identify with Montreal, the home of my family since we moved here 180 years ago. Everywhere I go in this city I find something that expresses my soul, my inner being, the place of my ancestors and my family. That is why I say I am a Montreal poet, for nowhere else I have been is home as much as Montreal is home. So, not only is poetry an expression of location but it is also a place of history, of what happened in the past, of names, places, dates, events; that is to say it is a place of psyche, of the soul.

Lane behind Girouard Avenue.

Lane behind Girouard Avenue.

Lane behind Girouard Avenue.

Looking towards Girouard Park, one street west of Girouard.

A few years ago when they renovated 2226 Girouard, my grandmother's home from 1925 to 1965, they didn't put in a new door (as seen above) that leads to the basement. 

Looking up at the back porch of my grandmother's flat on Girouard. 

The Shrouding by Leo Kennedy

I just finished reading Leo Kennedy's The Shrouding, originally published in 1933, this edition was re-published by Michael Gnarowski's Golden Dog Press in 1975. I am so impressed by Kennedy's work, I think he's brilliant and he's the real thing, a real poet. He always presented himself as a poet and I thought this rather specious when reading Patricia Morley's biography of Kennedy, but I can see the validity of it now. This one book is Kennedy's (almost entire) body of work, as Leon Edel writes in his Introduction, "...all writers in reality have only one book within them." This may be true, or not true, but we would still have liked a few more books by the same person. Kennedy is a formalist in his writing, there is rhythm and music in his poems, many of the poems are unfashionable as they rhyme, and the first poem in the book is a sonnet. Kennedy writes in his Introduction, "These poems were written when the world was more formal and poets thought a lot about scansion and almost as much about rhyme." I bought my copy of The Shrouding from Dundurn Press, delivered it cost $13.80, cheap! https://www.dundurn.com/books/Shrouding

McGill Fortnightly Review

Mark McCawley, the editor of Urban Grafitti, was in favour of online/digital magazines, I was in favour (and still am) of both, but I prefer a hard copy, on paper. This was one of the few things about which Mark and I disagreed. Online periodicals can disappear when the editor discontinues the site/periodical, and what is digital can be revised or altered in the Orwellian future. Hard copies of periodicals, kept in archives, can be researched years from now and I have done this type of research. So, for instance, two of the Montreal Group of poets (Scott and Smith) founded The McGill Fortnightly Review and it was published from 1925 to 1927; a few years later they published The McGilliad. Even today these periodicals are fascinating reading. The full run of both periodicals is available at Special Collections at McGill University or online at https://blogs.library.mcgill.ca/…/mcgill-fortnightly-review/

Leo Kennedy, Montreal Poet

I've just read Patricia Morley's As Though Life Mattered, Leo Kennedy's Story (1994); Kennedy was one of the four poets that comprised the Montreal Group in the 1920s. The others were F.R. Scott, A.J.M. Smith, and A.M. Klein. Kennedy had one book in him, The Shrouding (1933); I've read some of the poems in this book and they are truly exceptional, had he written more and produced a larger body of work he might have been the best of the four poets. Instead, he wrote advertising copy (like Ron Everson), many book reviews, and some poems for children; however, the second or third book was never written. We can only judge a poet on what he or she produces, the marriages, poverty, fishing trips, drinking, this is all of interest but it isn't poetry.

F.R. Scott, "The Dance is One"

I've just reread F.R. Scott's, The Dance is One (1973). Scott is not a great poet but he's also not a minor poet; as I wrote about Scott's colleague and friend, A.J.M. Smith, he is one of our better poets. Scott's importance lies not only in his body of creative work but also in what he did (he helped bring modernism in poetry to Canada in the 1920s), who he knew (Leon Edel, A.J.M. Smith, John Glassco, Leo Kennedy, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, Louis Dudek, and many others, for instance Pierre Eliot Trudeau), what he believed (for instance, an inclusive vision of Canada) and his career as a distinguished law professor at McGill University. 

Louis Dudek told me that Scott controlled every aspect of Sandra Djwa's biography, The Politics of the Imagination: A Life of F.R. Scott, that always intrigued me but I also feel ambivalent about it because Scott basically censored the book. If you read Professor Djwa's biography of P.K. Page you'll get the other half of the story about Scott's extramarital affairs that he didn't want in his official biography. I was also very impressed with Scott's book of translations St-Denys Garneau & Anne Hebert: Translations/Traductions (1962); additional translations by Scott are in The Dance is One.  

The title of The Dance is One is from his poem "Dancing" and is also the inscription on his and his wife's headstone in Mount Royal Cemetery. By the way, Allan Hustak's biography of Scott's father Canon Frederick G Scott, Faith Under Fire, shows the kind of extraordinary family F.R. came from; Canon Scott was an exceptional person as was his son Frank Scott.

Here is my main reservation regarding Frank Scott as a poet: writing poetry is not a sideline, maybe people can do two things well in life but not in poetry, poetry demands full-time commitment and Scott never gave it full-time commitment, he was also a human rights activist, a lawyer, a law professor, one of the founders of the CCF, and while some of the poetry he wrote is exceptional he also wrote satirical poetry, and other poems, that have a limited interest for readers. I know that Scott was charismatic and people liked him, some loved him, they all thought highly of him. But poets don't have to be nice people, was Robert Frost a nice person? No, but he was a great poet. Here is my main complaint about Frank Scott, he was attached to his social class while promoting social causes, he was making a name for himself as a lawyer and law professor, and while he was doing this he wasn't writing poetry, he was dividing his time and while poetry was important to him it didn't come absolutely first despite what he claimed. None of the Montreal Group of poets wrote large bodies of work except for A.M. Klein.  

Cover of Frank Scott's The Dance is One

Headstone for F.R. Scott and his wife Marian Dale Scott at Mount Royal Cemetery

Cover of Scott's translation of poems by Anne Hebert and St-Denys Garneau

Carolyn Zonailo at the Scotts' family grave site,
Mount Royal Cemetery, Montreal, mid-1990s

NOTE: This was up-dated and expanded on 28 July 2019; 02 August 2022.                          

How to write a poem

Part of a poet's education is reading poetry and hearing poets read their work. Other people's poems inspire us, not to write like them but to write our own poems, in our own voice, to be a witness of what we have seen and experienced—the geography of your soul—not to copy anyone's poems but an expression of one's own vision. One might say, when hearing a poem being read, that the poem inspires the soul to express itself.

            My test of poetry has always been that if the poems I am reading make me want to write then the work of that poet has enlarged my vision of poetry and life. The poets I continue to read, who for over the last twenty or more years still inspire me, are Charles Olson, Robert Lowell, and Louis Dudek. They are poets of the soul and enlarge one's concept of poetry.

            We also learn about poetry by hearing poets read their own work. Between October 1969 and April 1973 I heard many poets read at Sir George Williams University; I also attended readings at McGill University and Loyola College. Sometimes after a reading there would be a party, for instance at Professor Richard Sommers' home, or at the home of another professor; after the party I'd go home and write about the reading in my diary. It wasn't until 2012 that these diary entries had any importance when I was interviewed about the Sir George Williams University reading series by Professor Jason Camlot at Concordia University (formerly SGWU). Attending so many readings was a wonderful apprenticeship for a young poet. Here are the names of some of the poets that I heard read their work during my undergraduate years.

             Jerome Rothenberg, bill bissett, Allen Ginsberg, Frank Davey, Diane Wakowski, Ron Loewinsohn, Tom Raworth, David Ball, Robert Creeley, Roy Kiyooka, Al Purdy, Joel Oppenheimer, Ted Berrigan, David McFadden, Gerry Gilbert, Jack Winter, Kenneth Koch, Dennis Schmitz, Jackson Mac Low, Michael Horowitz, Gary Synder, Dorothy Livesay, L.E. Sissman, Mac Hammond, Tom Marshall, Irving Layton, W.H. Auden, Frank Scott, Earle Birney, Fred Cogswell, Louis Dudek, Alden Nowlan, Margaret  Atwood, Patrick Anderson, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Michael Benedikt, William Empson, Anaïs Nin, and others.

No Looking Back Now

INTRODUCTION: NO LOOKING BACK NOW

M

ark McCawley, who died suddenly in April 2016, was an Edmonton-based writer, publisher, and critic. Mark published and edited Urban Graffiti, a litzine that has an international reputation for publishing transgressive texts, including short stories, poetry, criticism, in-depth interviews with artists, and reviews of books, visual art, and music.

            Writers, as Margaret Laurence said long ago, are a tribe; we know our own people, we have friends, and friends of friends, around the world—we have a lineage and a history—and as members of this tribe many of us came to be friends with Mark. He was, as Richard Rathwell said, of "the social poet class...", that social class is our tribe.  He was one of us.

            I first became acquainted with Mark McCawley in the early 1990s. He published, with his Greensleeve Editions, chapbooks for both my wife and I; it was Carolyn Zonailo's The Letters of the Alphabet (1992) and my The Divining Rod (1993). In 2008 I published Mark's collection of short stories, Collateral Damage, on Coracle Press's online site. I also taught his short stories in my college-level English literature course; the response to his stories was always positive, the students appreciated his honesty and depiction of "real life". Mark wrote to me, "I think of all my literary experiences, I am most proud of the suite of stories you published, Collateral Damage. Even more so that you used those stories to teach your students." With time, there were other honours that Mark was also proud of, for instance being published in the Evergreen Review.

            It was in the early 1990s that Mark and I began to correspond, first by Canada Post, then E-mail, and for the last few years we also kept in touch on Facebook. Mark asked me to write a column for Urban Graffiti but personal events in my own life prevented me from doing this. Mark also published on Urban Graffiti several essays and fiction I wrote.

            Like many writers Mark was an introvert; my image of Mark is him working in solitude, listening to the music he loved, going out for a coffee, editing and publishing Urban Graffiti, and doing his own writing. Mark also had serious health issues and this is what finally ended his life at age fifty-two; it is much too young to leave this world.

            Mark was a highly intelligent and articulate advocate for literature and the arts. His passion was for transgressive literature but he was also interested in and affirmed the importance of literature in general. Mark and I agreed on many things about Canadian literature; for instance, that creative writing courses and the numerous awards for poetry that now exist have ended up promoting mediocre conservative writing. He was critical of everything fake, false, and hypocritical; Mark's integrity is part of why we valued him so much. One time I wrote to Mark that he was one of the most honest people on Facebook. I wrote, " ... Stay being honest, although I doubt you can do otherwise..."

            If Mark had a message for writers it is to be true to one's vision, don't sell out, tell the truth of what you have witnessed. Whenever we think of softening our line, of selling out what we believe, we need only remember Mark McCawley and we will quickly return to our authentic vision, one that is at the core of our inner being.

            The title of this essay, "No looking back now", are Mark's final words taken from his last communication with me. This morning I was thinking of Mark, I wondered: What will we do without him? And then, after some reflection, I remembered what Mark said, that there is "no looking back now." I realized that this is what we must do, move on to the future, get on with life; that is what he would have said and what he would have wanted us to do.  

                                                                        Stephen Morrissey

                                                                        Montreal, June 2016

Revised: 19/06/2016

Here is the full text at Internet Archive: 

Girouard Avenue (2009) now at the Internet Archive

2226 Girouard Avenue is the door on the right
leading to the upstairs flat

A few years ago I decided to digitize my out-of-print books and make them available as free downloads online. Only recently have I begun this project, it's long term and I'm slow at getting it off the ground...

I know doing this seems counter-intuitive to most people (especially poets), giving away the books, but I feel it is only common sense. Poetry has a very limited and ever-diminishing audience and "popularity". Copies of my books that I have left, hard copies, are doing nothing sitting in our basement in cardboard boxes.

Putting these books online (as is my plan) gives them a second life. It might even find a few readers for them.

So, here is a link to Girouard Avenue (2009), one of my favourite of my books. It got a lot of positive reaction from people who could relate to the content and I liked this very much. Someone living in Arizona told me it is a "holy" book, and that is how I feel about it. When I was preparing this book to put it online, digitizing it, I realized that it is some of my better work. It is the work I did during the late 1990s and 2000s, my first book since my Selected Poems in 1998. It is poetry inspired by my extensive family history work. There is also an essay that came out of writing this book, "Remembering Girouard Avenue" (also available at archive dot org) that explains something of the importance to me of Girouard Avenue.

In sum, the physical location called Girouard Avenue in Montreal became a spiritual place for me, it is my psychic center. As I wrote elsewhere, "This memoir ("Remembering Girouard Avenue") is an addendum to my book of poems, Girouard Avenue (2009). This is my psychic center, this is where I began in life and where I often return in dreams, poems, and memories." 

John McAuley reading at the Yellow Door, Montreal

C.G. Jung on poetry

On Poets:

Great poetry draws its strength from the life of mankind, and we completely miss its meaning if we try to derive it from personal factors. Whenever the collective unconscious becomes a living experience and is brought upon the conscious outlook of an age, this event is a creative act which is of importance to everyone living at that age. A work of art is produced that contains what may truthfully be called a message to generations of men. So Faust touches something in the soul of every German. So also Dante’s fame is immortal, while The Shepherd of Hermas just failed of inclusion in the New Testament canon. Every period has its bias, its particular prejudice and its psychic ailment. An epoch is like an individual; it has its own limitations of conscious outlook, and therefore requires a compensatory adjustment. This is effected by the collective unconscious in that a poet, a seer or a leader allows himself to be guided by the unexpressed desire of his times and shows the way, by word or deed, to the attainment of that which everyone blindly craves and expects—whether this attainment results in good or evil, the healing of an epoch or its destruction.

                                                      --C.G. Jung, Modern Man in Search of a Soul

The Compass comes home

Last year I wrote of seeing an article on CNNGO, out of Hong Kong, about someone finding a compass and inside was a copy of my poem "The Compass". This was news to me! I suppose whoever copied my poem found it on my website, www.stephenmorrissey.ca.

Last January I received an email from French author Ann Scott. A friend of hers had returned several years ago from a trip to Bangladesh and, as a present, given her a compass, the same one with my poem in it. This compass was purchased in Bangladesh! Ann wanted to know if I was the poet and, if so, did I want the actual compass? Immediately, I said I wanted the compass. A few weeks later I received a parcel in the mail containing the compass. Thank you, Ann!! I appreciate it!!

Someone (it was Richard Olafson of Ekstasis Editions) mentioned to me that poetry has a life of its own, and it does. Perhaps there are many copies of the compass out there, decorated strangely with a picture of St. Thomas More on the lid, with my sexy poem inside. A strange combination, indeed.

How a poem travels. From Montreal to Hong Kong, to Bangladesh and then to Paris, and then back home to Montreal. Around the world in several years time.

Welcome home, compass. Any more compass sightings out there?

Some notes on poetry and soul

Many of C.G. Jung’s psychological concepts and related interests—for instance, shadow, archetype, symbolism, alchemy, animus and anima, mythology, the collective unconscious, and so on—are the natural interests of many poets. The major difference between poetry and psychology is that poetry is the voice of the human soul, while Jungian psychology tries to explain how the soul works. They are two very different disciplines. The Irish poet, Patrick Kavanaugh, writes in one of his poems, “He knew that posterity has no use/ For anything but the soul…” Kavanaugh’s poems resonate for us because we recognize in them, as we do in all good poets, someone who speaks to our inner being. We can tell if a poet is genuine or not, inflated or not, and if the poet’s work is an authentic expression of the soul. We resonate to the authentic expression of the inner being of a fellow human being. Great poetry is an expression of “where psyche is leading one.” This phrase, from one of James Hollis’s books, that we need to find “where psyche leads us,” is the quest for an authentic life, an expression of where soul will lead us if only we follow.

C.G. Jung’s comments on the relationship of the collective unconscious and poetry in Modern Man in Search of a Soul are worth referring to here in relation to poetry and as they help explain something of the importance of Kavanaugh’s poetry:

"Great poetry draws its strength from the life of mankind, and we completely miss its meaning if we try to derive it from personal factors. Whenever the collective unconscious becomes a living experience and is brought upon the conscious outlook of an age, this event is a creative act which is of importance to everyone living at that age. A work of art is produced that contains what may truthfully be called a message to generations of men."

James Hillman’s “idea of psychopoesis” is also important, Hillman suggests that a poem is always at the heart of things. Depth psychology is referred to as soul making; however, poetry doesn't "make" the soul, it reveals the soul. One of the concerns of both poetry and depth psychology is the human soul: the intention of depth psychology is to unfold the complexity of a person’s life so that it can be better understood, and perhaps placed in a mythopoetic context; the poet’s intention, also to do with the soul, is to write poetry that is authentic to his or her soulful vision.

Some poets are wounded healers; however, these wounds may also be the source of the poet’s creativity and, as such, something that he or she may not want to give up. Poetry isn’t therapy -- poetry is a form of art -- but as anyone who reads literature knows, poetry can have a healing and transformative quality. The intention of poet and psychologist is substantially different; the difference is that while poetry is an expression of the soul, psychology speaks about the soul. The two disciplines should not be conflated; we need to remember that poetry is the oldest art form, thousands of years old, while psychology is about a hundred years old and still in its infancy. With this perspective in mind, we need to re-evaluate the importance of poetry and remember its relationship to soul.

------

These are excerpts taken from rough drafts of a review on Patrick Kavanaugh's poetry and Jungian psychology. SM

From Patrick Kavanagh

Patrick Kavanagh

I am always shy of calling myself a poet and I wonder much at those
young men and sometimes old men who boldly declare their poeticality.
If you ask them what they are, they say: Poet.

There is, of course, a poetic movement which sees poetry
materialistically. The writers of this school see no transcendent
nature in the poet; they are practical chaps, excellent technicians.
But somehow or other I have a belief in poetry as a mystical thing,
and a dangerous thing.

A man (I am thinking of myself) innocently dabbles in words and rhymes
and finds that it is his life. Versing activity leads him away from
the paths of conventional happiness. For reasons that I have never
been able to explain, the making of verses has changed the course of
one man's destiny. I could have been as happily unhappy as the
ordinary countryman in Ireland. I might have stayed at the same moral
age all my life. Instead of that, poetry made me a sort of outcast.
And I was abnormally normal.

                --Patrick Kavanagh
                   Author's Note, page xiii
                   Patrick Kavanagh, Collected Poems
                   Martin Brian & O'Keeffe, London, 1972

From Maud Bodkin

Maud Bodkin writes,

When a great poet uses the stories that have taken shape in the fantasy of the community, it is not his individual sensibility alone that he objectifies. Responding with unusual sensitiveness to the words and images which already express the emotional experience of the community, the poet arranges these so as to utilize to the full their evocative power. Thus he attains for himself vision and possession of the experience engendered between his own soul and the life around him, and communicates that experience at once individual and collective, to others, so far as they can respond adequately to the words and images he uses.

We see, then, why, if we wish to contemplate the emotional patterns hidden in our individual lives, we may study them in the mirror of our spontaneous actions, so far as we can recall them, or in dreams and in the flow of waking fantasy; but if we would contemplate the archetypal patterns that we have in common with men of past generations, we do well to study them in the experience communicated by the great poetry that has continued to stir emotional response from age to age.

Maud Bodkin, Archetypal Patterns in Poetry: psychological studies of imagination; Vintage Books, 1958, pages 7-8. First published in 1934

Black Elk: Crying for a Vision

Every man can cry for a vision, or "lament"; and in the old days we all -- men and women -- "lamented" all the time. What is received through the "lamenting" is determined in part by the character of the person who does this, for it is only those people who are very qualified who receive the great visions, which are interpreted by our holy man, and which give strength and health to our nation.

The Sacred Pipe, Black Elk's account of the Seven Rites of the Oglala Sioux, recorded & edited by Joseph Epes Brown, (Baltimore, Penguin Books, 1971) p. 44.

Jean Cocteau on Poetry

Excerpts from Opium, by Jean Cocteau, (Icon Books, London, UK, 1957). Cocteau's notes were written in December 1928 while he was a patient in a clinic near Paris for opium addiction. In the following, I have excerpted only his notes on poetry.
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     One cannot translate a real poet; not because his style is musical, but because his thought has a plastic quality, and, if this changes, the thought changes.
     A Russian said to me: ‘The style of Orphée is musical in the opposite way to what the public calls musical. In spite of its lack of music, it is musical because it leaves the spirit free to profit from it as it wishes.

*

     A poet, unless he is a politician (such as Hugo, Shelley or Byron), must only count on readers who know his language, the spirit of his language and the soul of his language.

* *

     What of a poet or a dramatist endowed with the Indian fakir’s power of mass-hypnosis? Why do you boast then about not being in the realm of illusion and of seeing the trick behind the curtain? It is a case of people making fun of genius because they cannot be touched by it. That is the whole difference between us and the camera with its coweye. Many minds are confused between being touched and being victimized, admiring and being the dupe. They brace themselves against hypnosis. It is easy, alas! because the poet uses his fluid indirectly and possesses only the feeblest means of persuasion.
     A museum is only justified to the extent that it bears witness to ancient activities, and keeps what remains of the phosphorescence around works, the fluid that emanates from them, and thanks to which they succeed in overcoming death.

* * *

     Once a poet wakes up, he is stupid, I mean intelligent. “Where am I?”, he asks, like ladies who have fainted. Notes written by a poet who is awake are not worth much. I offer them only for what they are worth, at my own risk. One more experience.

* * * *

     The inexplicable importance of poetry. Poetry considered as algebra.
     First of all, poetry only solicits the toughest minds, minds which should scorn it as a luxury; the worst of all.
     If it were proved to me that I would condemn myself to death if I did not burn “L’Ange Heurtebise,” [A poem which Cocteau first published in 1925. (Tr.)] I would perhaps burn it.
     If it were proved to me that I would condemn myself to death if I did not add to or take away one syllable from the poem, I could not change it, I would refuse, I would die.
     When I see all the artists who used to make a practise of despising the fashionable world because they had not as yet been received into it, lapse into snobbishness after the age of forty, I congratulate myself on having had the possibility of going into the fashionable world at sixteen and on having had enough of it by the time I was twenty-five.

* * * * *

     Legend gathers round poets who live in glass houses. If they hide and live in some unknown cellar, the public thinks: “You’re hiding, you want us to believe there is something where there is nothing.”
     On the other hand, if they look at the glass house, the public thinks: Your over simple gestures conceal something. You are deceiving us, you are mystifying us; and everyone begins to guess, distort, interpret, search, find, symbolise, and mystify.
     People who come close to me and fathom the mystery, pity me and become angry; they do not know the advantages of a ridiculous legend: when they throw me to the flames they burn a lay figure who is not even like me. A bad reputation should be maintained with more love and more luxury than a little dancer.
     In this way, I can explain the fine phrase that Max Jacob wrote to me: One should not be known for what one does.
     Fame in one’s lifetime should only be used for one thing: to allow our work, after our death, to start out with a name.

* * * * * *

     I wonder how people can write the lives of poets since the poets themselves could not write their own life. There are too many mysteries, too many true falsehoods, too many complications.
     What can be said of the passionate friendships which must be confused with love, and yet nevertheless are something else, of the limits of love and friendship, of this region of the heart in which unknown senses participate, which cannot be understood by those who live standard lives?
     Dates overlap, years mingle together. The snow melts, the feet fly away; no footprints remain.