ENGL 310: Modern Poetry
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ENGL 310 - Lecture 13 - Hart Crane
Chapter 1. Hart Crane Poem: “Legend” [00:00:00]
Professor Langdon Hammer: Crane is a challenge. He’s a challenge for you; he’s a challenge for me as a teacher. He’s a challenging poet. He challenges his reader. He challenges us and he makes invitations to us. He calls to us in various ways, places demands on us.
I’d like to talk about a text I’m not, in fact, holding. Does somebody have an RIS packet handy that I could have in my hands? Thank you, Jean. And that is the poem “Legend,” which is the poem placed first in Crane’s first and only book of lyrics called White Buildings. It’s a poem that he used to introduce himself to the reader, as it were. So, why don’t we use it to begin thinking about his work:
The poem begins with a kind of riddle or enigma, and then the first person comes forward:
It’s a wonderful idea: “I’m not going to repent of anything; I’m not going to regret anything. I have not bent any more, I have nothing more to regret than the flame which has drawn me, which bent as well.”
Characteristically here, for Crane, there’s a compressed set of images. Those “tremorous white falling flakes” there; well, they’re almost images, aren’t they, of a burnt moth, a moth that’s been drawn to the flame. And then those come to be seen as, here, kisses. Kisses, if we unpack Crane’s odd syntax, it would seem – the sentence would seem to read – although it’s maybe available to other constructions – “kisses are tremorous in the white falling flakes.” But these kisses, these kisses that are also emblems of flame and of extinction even, are “the only worth all granting”; that is, the only value that seems to grant all, I think. Again those words, “all granting,” might be construed in a couple of different ways. Crane says:
We must learn to be drawn to the flame and we must learn to recover from the flame and renew our desires and renew our quests.
In order to do this, you’ve got to spend yourself repeatedly, over and over again. And then he gives us other images of this kind of repeated burning:
This activity is repeated and repeated:
Well, it’s a hard poem and yet there are a few, I think, simple, basic ideas that it projects that are important to the poet that Crane saw himself as, and the one he wants us to receive and in a sense join. He presents himself as an unrepentant visionary, Romantic, and lover – since, after all, these roles are all held in some association here. He talks about here a willingness that’s erotic, that’s aesthetic, that’s spiritual; to exhaust oneself in the pursuit of one’s desires; to “spend out” yourself again and repeatedly. There is in this the promise that by doing it repeatedly, “drop by caustic drop,” a kind of lyric voice will emerge that will be “a perfect cry.” And despite this destruction and pain and blood, “bleeding eidolon”, a “constant [that is, sustained] harmony “will be achieved, “harmony” invoking, of course, more than one voice.
And what is this? This is a poetic project, and it’s a project that he describes as a “relentless caper,” a “relentless caper.” “Caper” comes from Latin, in the sense of the goat that leaps. It’s also a word that suggests, well, some kind of minor mischief: a “relentless caper for all those who step / the legend of their youth into the noon.” And here, Crane presents himself as a young person who would project all of the youthful vitality of his vision and desire into this symbolically pregnant moment that he calls “the noon.” It’s a time very important in Crane’s imagination, I think: idiosyncratically, individually, but also in a way that alludes to noon in Emily Dickinson’s poems; Dickinson being a poet that Crane shares a great deal with. The poetry of Hart Crane – it proposes to approach what he calls “noon,” which is an experience of fullness and absolute presence.
Now, what does he mean, he’s “not ready for repentance”? Who after all has told him to repent? Who has told him he has something to regret? “Repent” is something that Crane heard from the culture at large in important ways. Crane is writing in the mid-twenties, or at this point. I think this is a poem from 1924 or so. It is post-war America. Crane sees himself as a member of a new youthful world, centered in places like Greenwich Village. He sees himself as part of a young America, bound together across place by a kind of common dedication to art and to their will to free themselves from the sexual and economic disciplines that he calls in this letter that I have quoted other sentences from, calls “Puritanism.” Crane is writing in an era, the era of the Eighteenth Amendment. Prohibition is in effect. There is a range of kinds of censorship that are a real and present threat. James Joyce’s novel Ulysses has been banned from the United States shores for its obscenity. There’s a way in which modernist art is mixed up with questions of sexuality. Crane got his copy of Ulysses smuggled from France, which a friend then stole. Crane is living, too, in a vital and nascent gay culture, in New York in particular, and yet within a nation, then as now, that is strongly homophobic and anti-gay in all sorts of ways. Crane’s insistence on, his refusal to repent, his refusal to regret, are assertions of his will towards forms of sexual and imaginative freedom. They’re also affirmations of a Romantic poetics, essential to him.
Chapter 2. Hart Crane’s Reading of Eliot’s “The Waste Land” [00:12:59]
There’s also a literary historical context for this that’s important and that I think you can probably already start to guess at. Crane is a deep and a deeply ambivalent reader of The Waste Land and T. S. Eliot. He says in this letter to Gorham Munson in January 1923:
Crane is reading The Waste Land and he’s reading Eliot’s criticism. He’s responding to – well, he’s responding to a series of texts, and I’ll just show you some of what he’s reading here. This is The Criterion, the first place Eliot’s poetry, The Waste Land, appeared. That’s in October 1922, Eliot’s own magazine. The first American publication of the poem was in The Dial in November 1922, and then the poem appeared in – I don’t know if you can see that very well – the poem appeared in a New York publication in book form as its own discreet text. When the Liveright edition of the poem was being prepared, as I mentioned last time, Eliot was asked to make the poem a little longer, because after all it was a little too short, and, or so the story goes, this was in part one of his motives for producing the notes to the poem. As I said last time, this is the way the poem looked in America when it first appeared, and of course with just a few lines per page. Last time I called it the shortest long poem in the language. You can see the way in which it’s sort of drawn out. Here’s the little section I ended by talking about, “Death by Water.”
Well, as I suggested last time, Eliot’s notes suggested and created a kind of role for the poet where the poet was not only the creative lyric presence at the center of the poem but was also a kind of scholar and critic of his own work: framing it, mastering bodies of knowledge, and arranging meaning in ways that the notes emblematize. In the process, Eliot’s doing a couple of things that Crane is responding to. He is establishing himself in what I described as a new role, and that’s very much the role you see Eliot embodying here; that is, the poet as a kind of scholar poet, a figure backed by institutional authority of various kinds.
And this figure’s created specifically in The Waste Land through the poem’s turning away from and turning against, in complicated ways, its own forms of Romanticism, which last time I suggested were emblematized by that drowned Phoenician sailor, Phlebas, who is a kind of figure for what the poem sacrifices or, you might say, a kind of version of the self that Eliot is willing to give up. Crane, encountering the poem, I think, must have been obsessed with the section, “Death by Water” – must have seen, must have heard Eliot talking to him when Eliot says, “Consider Phlebas who was once handsome and tall as you.” Crane means to reassert the power of youth, reassert the potential for Romantic vision, and to do so in a way that he imagines as a kind of resurrection and, specifically, as a kind of passage through and beyond “Death by Water.”
Chapter 3. Hart Crane Poem: “Voyages” [00:20:55]
Drowning is an important imaginative motif in Crane’s work. The poems that I’ll concentrate on now to explore this idea all have images of romance quest and drowning at their center. And I mean, first of all, the very great love poem called “Voyages” on page 609, which Eliot or – excuse me, which Crane began in the spring of 1924, about a year after he’s read The Waste Land. And the poem is, I think, his first sort of developed reply, and it centers, as I say, on images of drowning. The poem arises from a love affair with, as it happens, a Danish sailor who was part of the Bohemian crowd around the Provincetown Players in Greenwich Village. Crane’s letters are full of both reflections on Eliot and also ecstatic and very moving accounts of his love affair with Emil Opffer. I’ll read you just a few sentences from one letter to his friend, Waldo Frank. He says – Crane does:
Now, imagery from this and other letters that Crane wrote during the period emerge in “Voyages.” The very first section of “Voyages” had been, in fact, sitting on Crane’s desk for three years:
The poem begins on shore, begins with kids playing. Their play in all its innocence seems to imply and gesture towards ferocious energies that are emblematized by the sea in all of its thunder and lightning and power. They fondle, they flay. The shoreline is a place where there are fragments of debris, proof of the sea’s force. The poem begins with a simple moral injunction or, really, a practical warning. To give yourself over to the sea would be to enter a field of unbounded energy, to risk your identity, to risk being overwhelmed. Think of Prufrock, on the shore, “shall I wear my trousers rolled?” Crane is there, in the same place, and having issued this warning, having acknowledged the cruelty of the bottom of the sea, he throws it off and throws it behind, and enters the water:
Crane images the sea here as a woman’s body and as a kind of belly that bends towards the moon. It’s a kind of vision of the open horizon of the sea as, you know, it seems to project the curve of the earth in it.
That’s a wonderful Cranian word, “wrapt.” It would seem to mean both “wrapped,” in the sense of “wrapped up,” and “rapt,” in the sense of “held in rapture.” He’s kind of combined, possibly through error, these two forms. Crane makes errors. He’s unlike the scholarly Eliot. He continues, and now gives us instructions:
Here, being in the space of the sea is like being in love or in the act of love, as Crane imagines it. It’s also like being in a fabulous rhetorical world: a space of gorgeous extravagant language, which Crane unleashes here in all of its terrific force. Its language, which is iambic pentameter, unlike Eliot, is a language as rich and ornate as on the English Renaissance stage. Marlowe would have liked this. It is also a kind of Romantic diction, and there are elements of a sort of late nineteenth-century British and French poetry that Crane is combining here. He says:
Crane understands that love, like rhetoric, casts a spell, and that love and poetry create illusions. He does not therefore despise them; different from Eliot, in a basic way. He acknowledges, as it were, the temporariness of his desire. In fact he says:
What are “minstrel galleons of Carib fire”? Well, maybe they’re actual ships that he’s imagining passing among. Maybe they are the lights of the moon or sun on the sea. He says to the sea:
There the subject of the sentence comes last. The sentence is: “The seal’s wide spindrift gaze is answered in the vortex of our grave.” What Crane has done there is: he’s reversed the syntactic order of subject and verb. By doing so, he’s introduced first the image of death by drowning – that is, the vortex of our grave – and he’s put that up first; and then, he’s followed it with the image of the seal’s gaze, which comes and emerges after drowning. The seal is here a figure of a kind of consciousness and desire expressed through the eyes that survives death.
Look back to the poem preceding, called “At Melville’s Tomb.” Here this is an elegy for Melville which seems to presume, falsely, that Melville was drowned, and is not buried on shore, as he is. And there’s an image again of drowning in lines 11 and 12, and again an image of a vortex:
How do eyes lift altars? In Crane’s letter to Harriet Munroe, in defense of this poem and what he calls “the logic of metaphor,” Crane says, well, eyes lift altars in the sense that they bring the object of their desire into being through their desire; that is, you raise the altar, you create the object of worship through your yearning for it. This is, again, a kind of visionary act, and it’s a version of the one that we find at the end of the second section of “Voyages” where we see the seagull’s – excuse me, “the seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.” “Wide.” “Wide” because it’s a gaze that is large and takes in much space; “wide” because the sea is a kind of space in which we have latitude of action. “Spindrift”: it’s a word that Crane took from Moby Dick, from Melville, replacing another word – not such a good word – which also came from Moby Dick: “finrinny.” It’s good he got rid of that.
“Spindrift” is important. When you are in the sea, it is like being in a Crane poem. You don’t have the ground under your feet. You spin and you drift; you spin and you drift and words mix and match and create words like “spindrift.” This is a condition that Crane calls, in the next poem, “infinite consanguinity,” where there’s a kind of sharing of elements, a kind of transformation through exchange that goes on. This is understood as what happens in love. It’s also understood as a kind of model for poetic process. It’s imaged here in this poem in triumphant language as a kind of transcendence of death. Here, describing a moment of climactic intensity, Crane writes:
“The silken skilled transmemberment of song”: this is Crane’s final, fantastic line of iambic pentameter, where he proclaims a kind of transformation that is at once erotic and rhetorical, where elements between two parties have been exchanged and reversed just as the “silk” and “skill” give us phonemes that are held in almost a kind of mirror relationship and alliteration: the i-l-k, k-i-l. And then Crane introduces us to another word that he coins: “transmemberment.” “Transmemberment”: what does “transmemberment” mean? It seems to be made out of – what? Remember, dismember, transformation. He’s talking about a kind of activity that involves all these things at once, and through it achieves a kind of vision of union, which is again, as I say, both linguistic and interpersonal.
Well, that seems like a good place to stop for now. We’ll carry these poems on as a way to read his long poem in reply to The Waste Land – The Bridge.
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