odourofdevonviolet.com
The Scent That Captures That "1930s Moment"!
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LXIX
The Audens, Spenders, Caudwells and Day Lewises of today –
Post-‘Pylon’ poets snubbed as dithyrambic ‘Windfarm’
Verisifiers in supplemental disparagements from
Establishment gendarmes– are given vent in revenant
Left-wing magazines: the enduringly red Communist Review,
Sixties-retro agitprop poltergeist the International Times,
And the Morning Star –that urgent howling ghost of the former
Daily Worker of the Thirties– the only newspaper
Cooperative, thus suspect to oligopolies –spurned by
Acquiescent mainstreams which insist on literal interpretation
Of Auden’s disingenuously hijacked lament that ‘poetry
Makes nothing happen’, unimaginatively mystified through
Merman Hermeneutics sealing the aphorism in hermetic
Aspic of solipsism, bypassing the still-pressing and open-
Ended question as to whether there could ever be fusion
Between poetry and action; a relief for the quietist Queens
And Jacks of contemporary supplement poetry: they have
A received verse mandate: non-intervention –and pretention
Is better than pure agitprop; plus nerveless verses need no
Spine to speak of… And it’s in their versted interests not
To let politically active verse sieve through the vents
Of prevailing Quarterly narratives; and, if some accidentally
Does, conservative servicing voices will race to column
Spaces to denounce new unschooled upstarts, careful to
Conceal blistering objections to socialistic sentiments
By couching reactionary rashes in bubonic crypticism,
Overtures to vetting invertebrate letters (reasserting
Themselves as ‘betters’!), haranguing technical inadequacies,
Failiures of leitmotifs, hackneyed language (even that which
Is tackling hackneyed politics –pastiche: special privilege
Of pedants and satirical critics), ‘honeycombing with clichés’
As Cyril Connolly aphorised in Enemies of Promise…
LXX
Convenient, then, to excerpt only egg-shell exceptions
Of spirited but vulnerable amateurs, scoop tropes completely
Out of context, disingenuously hung out to dry and
Highlight bogus rubric of compositional uniformity
From a multitude of authors –that most improbable thing:
The homologous anthology; such critical skulduggery
Simply abrades its own veneer –ideological purges
Rupture warping surfaces for being so flimsily disguised
In pedantry and nitpicking; thimble-thumbing prickling
And pedagogic thuggery betrays itself as so much public-
Washing of dirty laundry when transparently calculated:
To wring out only the most uncouth cloth of rhetoric...
...For special mention, the sloppier pulps of protest for
Least typical examples, the thornier scrubs of polemical
Poems and choriambic tub-thumps for mean-spirited drubs;
To prowl the souls of words as if to pendulum-dowse
Ranging pages for grains of gracelessness and lack of polish,
Rather than read the full gamut of songs with and without ‘names’
Attached to them, and without prejudice; hack away
At a lack of satire that might have tempted in a more
Apolitical readership, pedigrees of irony-loungers;
And plant proleptic ripostes to anticipated backlashes
At hatchet jobs (O hubris knows no bounds of word counts
In its remorseless Mongol-like sweep through supplemental
Column inches, savage as Visigoths rampaging rapacious
Through Roman arches –columns which act as inscrutable
Jurisdictions where supercilious jackanapes and
Despotic John Croker throwbacks hold kangaroo courts
Under variously abbreviated canopies of Just Churls) –for,
It’s rhetorical: ‘poetry makes nothing happen’, almost on
A habitual basis; the only catalyst is criticism, which
Contrives in the valley of its’ muck-raking, where editors
Tend to pamper; survives –a way of battering; a badmouth…
LXXI
Now Auden’s camouflaged aphorism is a dictum codified
Into post-modern myth, light years away from C. Day Lewis’s
Left Review pamphlet, ‘We’re not going to do NOTHING’ –
At the vanguard of the red double negative, eventually
To be vandalised by the Soviet transitive, and a volley
Of machine-gunned missives spilling red on red, red against red
(Better red and dead!) –but good on C. Day Lewis for putting
Poetry where its mouth is; at its best, a bullet without
A wreathed name engraved on it, since scrollwork curtails ricochet…
DEVON VIOLET MAKES NOTHING HAPPEN –
SURVIVES IN THE DEVON VALLEY OF ITS’ DISTILLING –
IT’S A SPRAY OF HAPPENING – A SNOUT!