Differentials: Poetry, Poetics, Pedagogy

Corporation.

Introduction

Differential Reading

Reading Closely

Not long ago I was teaching a graduate course called Theory of the Avant-Garde, which covered such major movements as Futurism and Dada as well as two individual American avant-gardists—Gertrude Stein and William Carlos Williams. The course material was largely unfamiliar to the class: F. T. Marinetti’s parole in libertà, Velimir Khlebnikov’s Tables of Destiny, Marcel Duchamp’s Large Glass and the notes for its execution in the White Box, Kurt Schwitters’s collages and sound poems, and Raoul Haussman’s political satire. The students were remarkably astute on the larger aesthetic and ideological issues involved and especially perceptive about visual works. I was therefore astonished when at semester’s end we came to what I took to be the more familiar American modernist exemplars and found that the same students who could discuss with great aplomb the relation of the Milky Way to Bachelors in the Large Glass were largely at a loss when it came to Williams’s short lyric poems like Danse Russe or The Young Housewife—both, incidentally, well-known anthology pieces. Here is The Young Housewife:

At ten A.M. the young housewife

moves about in negligee behind

the wooden walls of her husband’s house.

I pass solitary in my car.

Then again she comes to the curb

to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands

shy, uncorseted, tucking in

stray ends of hair, and I compare her

to a fallen leaf.

The noiseless wheels of my car

rush with a crackling sound over

dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.¹

In the self-consciously feminist eighties, readers often objected to what they perceived as the rape fantasy in this poem: if the young housewife is comparable to a fallen leaf, and the noiseless wheels of the poet’s car rush with a crackling sound over / dried leaves, he is evidently longing to ride over the young woman, to possess her. This analysis, I shall suggest later, is not incorrect, but the reference to rape ignores the wry humor of the poem’s tone, the delicacy of its irony.

In 2002 the response was much more bizarre. A number of students, for example, took the young housewife to be a prostitute because she comes to the curb and calls men. She is, moreover, in a state of undress—in negligee and uncorseted. And the poet compares her to a fallen leaf—that is, a fallen woman. But, I asked these students, what about those men the young housewife actually calls from the curb: the ice-man and fish-man—which is to say, delivery men who bring daily domestic goods to the house? And why is she doing these things, shyly tucking in / stray ends of hair at 10 A.M.? Again, why does the poet bow to this prostitute or call girl and pass smiling? Why such respectful—and distant—behavior?

This last question prompted mere dismissal on the part of the class, for, it was argued, there must be something funny going on here, because you can’t bow in a car! In response I started driving in my chair and doffing my imaginary hat, as was the habit in early-twentieth-century America, so as to show them that all bows are not Japanese deep bows of the kind they have seen in the movies. Indeed, I’ve been practicing the Williams bow and smile in my car ever since.

Another reading proffered by the class was that the poet-speaker has been having an ongoing affair with the young housewife. Otherwise, how would he know that she wears negligees in the morning? No doubt he is jealous of the husband who owns her, the husband behind whose wooden walls she is forced to perform her daily tasks. And he is bitter about being solitary in his car and hence fantasizes about crushing her.

This reading is really not much more convincing than the first. One doesn’t refer to one’s mistress as "the young housewife, and a shy one at that. If the speaker, who evidently doesn’t know her by name, is passing solitary in [his] car, he can only surmise—or imagine—what she might be wearing. When he does see her as he passes, she is outside the front door, shyly calling the ice-man and fish-man; so, if the two are indeed lovers, she is behaving peculiarly indeed. More important—if the poet were her lover, why does he merely bow and pass smiling"? Why no interaction between the two?

But surely, it will be argued, there isn’t one correct reading, is there? If post-structuralism taught us anything, it’s that the reader can construct the text in a variety of ways. True enough, but that is not to say that anything goes. For example, if someone argued that The Young Wife deals with trench warfare, at its height in 1916 when this poem was written, everyone would agree that this is nonsense.

How, then, does one proceed? Perhaps there is finally no alternative to what was called in the Bad Old Days, close reading. Today’s students may have no idea what close reading entails, but surely their teachers vaguely remember close reading or explication de texte, as it was known in French, as some sort of New Critical or Formalist exercise whereby readers performed dry, boring, and nitpicking analyses on given autonomous texts, disregarding the culture, politics, and ideology of those texts in the interest of metaphor, paradox, irony, and what a leading close reader of the 1950s, Harvard’s Reuben Brower, called the key design of a literary work.² But would a far reading, then, be better than a close one? Well, not exactly, but perhaps reading is itself passé, what with the possibility that a given poem or novel could serve as an exemplar of this or that theory, in which case one might only have to focus on a particular passage. In the case of T. S. Eliot’s Gerontion, for example, one need only discuss the specifically anti-Semitic passages so as to demonstrate Eliot’s racism.

But close reading was hardly confined to the New Critics or to Formalists of various stripes. There have been stunning Marxist close readings—for example, those by T. J. Clark of specific modernist paintings from Manet’s Bar at the Follies Bergère to DeKooning’s Suburb in Havana. And the best close readings we have of Williams are probably those of Hugh Kenner, who understood that poetry was not the equivalent of metaphor or a key design waiting to be unpacked. Indeed, in his readings of Joyce and Beckett, Pound and Williams, Kenner relied just as heavily on biographical and cultural information as he did on rhetorical analysis. You could not, for example, understand the minimalist lyric As the cat, he noted, unless you knew what a jamcloset was.³

Formalist reading, we are regularly told, goes hand in hand with the premise that the poem is an autonomous artifact. But the privileging of the poetic function has never meant that knowledge—of the poet’s life, milieu, culture, and especially his or her other poems—is not relevant. Roman Jakobson’s great essay on Mayakovsky’s poetic called The Generation That Swallowed Its Poets is a case in point. In the case of The Young Housewife, it surely helps to know that each morning, Dr. Williams, a busy pediatrician, left his house at 9 Ridge Road in suburban Rutherford, New Jersey, and headed for his office, proceeding, later in the day, to make house calls and hospital calls that naturally involved a good deal of driving. Poems were something he wrote on the run, between patients, generally leaving a page in the office typewriter and composing a verse or two when he had a free moment.

There is currently much speculation about Williams’s love life. By his own admission, in poems like Asphodel that Greeny Flower and the Autobiography, he had his share of affairs, but for obvious reasons they had to be highly circumspect: Williams was a married man, the father of two sons, in a small suburban town. There are indeed poems that allude to specific incidents—for example, poem IX in Spring and All, with its address to a hospital nurse: O ‘Kiki’ / O Miss Margaret Jarvis / The backhandspring (Collected Poems 1 200). But The Young Housewife is written in the third person, its tone one of bemused, clinical detachment. The title itself suggests that the woman in question is one the poet barely knew, someone he merely saw fleetingly on his daily drive to the office.

Williams’s poem has none of the difficult references and allusions we find in Pound or Eliot; there seems to be nothing to look up. Indeed, the New Critics found Williams’s poetry so flat, so prosaic, that they dismissed it as inferior to the poetry of Robert Frost or Hart Crane. But the references that were obvious to Williams’s contemporaries may now be as obscure as Pound’s Chinese ideograms or references to Eleusis in The Cantos. In the twenty-first century, the ice-man and fish-man are no longer familiar figures. Was there really a time when people did not have refrigerators and hence needed to have a block of ice delivered to their homes? When the milkman delivered the requisite quarts every morning? And when the fish-man delivered fresh fish on demand? Williams’s reader needs to know that in the early twentieth century, home delivery—now pretty much reserved for the newspaper—was the order of the day. The calling of the ice-man and fish-man is thus simply part of the housewife’s morning routine. Or take the phrase as I bow and pass smiling which my students found unrealistic. In 1916 men routinely wore hats outside their homes, and when they greeted someone, especially a lady, they inclined their heads slightly and doffed their hats. It is a scene played out in any Humphrey Bogart or Fred MacMurray film you care to see.

Inevitably, then, we cannot separate a close reading of the poem from at least some reading of the poet’s culture. In another well-known Williams poem, Danse Russe (1916), the poet tells us that it’s his inclination, when my wife is sleeping / and the baby and Kathleen / are sleeping, to retire to his north room and dance naked, grotesquely / before my mirror . . . singing softly to myself, ‘I am lonely, lonely, / I was born to be lonely, / I am best so!’ (Collected Poems 1 86–87). To assume, as some students did, that Kathleen, clearly the baby’s nurse, and the poet are lovers, is to ignore the speaker’s consuming desire to be alone, to assert his independence from the daily household routine. On the other hand, this transient desire has its comic side, as we know from the poem’s conclusion that even as the poet does his eccentric little naked dance, he declares, Who shall say I am not / the happy genius of my household? The poet is smiling at his own antics.

Indeed, a droll, tongue-in-cheek humor is central to these early Williams lyrics, as their language and genre suggest. Because poetry now tends to be taught, when taught at all, without recourse to convention and genre, readers fail to recognize that The Young Housewife is to be read as an updated version of the chanson courtois: the solitary physician at the wheel of his car is a modern version of the knight on his charger, approaching the fortified castle where his lady is kept in captivity by the tyrannical lord of the manor. The young housewife, pictured behind / the wooden walls of her husband’s house—a deliciously long-winded circumlocution—is inaccessible to the poet. But his Complaint is more parodic than real; he does not penetrate the wooden castle before him; indeed he merely passes by. And he will not languish or wither away from unrequited love; on the contrary, the poem ends with a smile. After all, as neighboring poems make clear, he has, for better or worse, his own wife—another young housewife, incidentally, who must negotiate with ice-men and fish-men.

Given these generic markers, the poem itself is a triumph of tone. The three-stanza free-verse poem begins matter-of-factly:

It sounds like a lab report, but Williams slyly makes the second word group echo the first by repeating its stress pattern in elongated form, as if to equate the anonymous woman with a mere time signal.⁴ After this casual opening, the second line deviates from the colloquial norm:

moves about in negligee behind

Normal syntax would demand an article or possessive pronoun before negligee; its absence suggests that in negligee is this young woman’s inherent state—a supposition borne out by the curious break after behind that gives us a double entendre, focusing on the woman’s in negligee behind. The same phenomenon occurs in lines 7–8, where the poet, passing solitary in [his] car, first surmises (or imagines) that the young housewife is uncorseted and then observes her tucking in what the line break anticipates will be her flesh, deliciously not yet tucked into her corset, but that turns out to refer to stray ends of hair.

With the image of those sexually charged stray ends of hair, the poet’s erotic fantasy reaches its peak. Williams’s lyric form, James Breslin observed in what is probably still the best general book on the poet, renders prosaic subjects with a tough colloquial flatness.⁵ But what is interesting is that this colloquial flatness so easily moves—and this is a Williams trademark—into a quasi-surrealism, a fantasy state. The young housewife’s appearance, uncorseted and in negligee, may be largely a projection of the poet’s own desire. And the comparison that now follows—and I compare her / to a fallen leaf—is patently absurd, since no one could seem fresher, younger, more shyly inexperienced than this young, probably newly married woman, performing her housewifely tasks. The poet may well wish that she would come to the curb and call out, not to the ice-man or fish-man, but to him! It is only in foolishly comparing her to a fallen leaf that he can distance himself from her presence.

And so, in the final stanza the noiseless wheels of [his] car / rush with a crackling sound over / dried leaves—a puzzle, for how do noiseless wheels crackle? Perhaps the poet-doctor is just imagining the sound? He knows, in any case, that normalcy must prevail, that it is 10 A.M. on an ordinary weekday morning and probably time to make hospital rounds. The desire to rush with a crackling sound over / dried leaves is thus fleeting and subliminal, a momentary wish to have what belongs to another man. But within the suburban context of the poem, nothing is going to happen. The driver merely bow[s] and pass[es] smiling. Time to move on.

It is only by looking closely at line breaks, syntactic units, and word order that the delicately comic/erotic tone of The Young Housewife can be understood. If the poet’s is a rape fantasy, it remains firmly in the poet’s mind, the irony being that the young woman seems largely unaware of his presence. Indeed, the poet’s self-assertion is itself comic, as in the silly internal rhyme:

Stray ends of hair, and I compare her

And this line also contains an echo of Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? In the same vein, the alliteration of h’s in lines 2 and 3—"behind, her, husband’s house"—gives the lines a breathlessness connoting anticipation rather than any kind of serious plot.

Then, too, consider the relation of line to stanza in The Young Housewife. The poem’s twelve lines, ranging from five to nine syllables, are divided into three stanzas of four, five, and three lines, respectively. Given the purposely prosaic rhythm of such lines as

whose eight syllables carry only three primary stresses, broken by caesurae, one wonders why Williams felt he had to group these irregular lines into stanzas at all. I think there are two reasons. First, these are, in Hugh Kenner’s words, "stanzas you can’t quite hear. . . . They are stanzas to see, and the sight of them, as so often in Williams inflects the speaking voice, the listening ear, with obligations difficult to specify."⁶ Then, too, there is a time gap between each of the stanzas. In the space between stanzas 1 and 2, the young housewife makes her appearance. Between stanzas 2 and 3, the doctor driving by finally makes eye contact with her. Smiling is the key word in this context—the moment when she seems to finally acknowledge the man’s presence—although that too may be his imagination.

Close reading moves readily between such detail and larger cultural and historical determinants. What was the role of wives in pre–World War I America? What sort of decorum was observed between men and women, and when was it violated? If we read The Young Housewife against Williams’s own short stories, poems, and autobiographical writing, a more complex picture of the Rutherford scene emerges. Eccentricity, for example, was wholly frowned upon, as we see in Danse Russe. Again, if we read The Young Housewife against, say, the work of Williams’s friends Wallace Stevens and Marianne Moore, we note a willingness to trace the curve of actual emotions and sexual fantasies that Stevens would have shied away from and that Moore would have rendered in much more symbolic/allegorical terms. Here class and gender considerations come into play, as do issues of nationality when we read Williams against his expatriate friend Ezra Pound. The young housewife is not compared to a Greek goddess or a figure in a Renaissance painting, and she is, significantly, never given a name, whether realistic like Eliot’s Miss Helen Slingsby or fanciful like Stevens’s Nanzia Nuncio. Rather, it is location that counts for Williams—the suburb, a word that rhymes with the curb from which his housewife calls. And that suburb, epitomized by the wooden walls of her husband’s house, acts to curb her very activity.

Did British poets of 1916 write this way? And if not, why not? What historical constraints and cultural markers were operative? It would be fascinating to explore such questions, but current discourse about poetry is reluctant to ask them. Using everything, as Gertrude Stein enunciated the principle, is out of favor. And speaking of Stein, students who took the young housewife to be a prostitute and the Kathleen of Danse Russe to be Williams’s girlfriend were even more misled by Stein’s Miss Furr and Miss Skeene. In the course of this brilliant and witty tale of a lesbian affair and its breakup, we read:

She [Helen] went to see them where she had always been living and where she did not find it gay. She had a pleasant home there, Mrs. Furr was a pleasant enough woman, Mr. Furr was a pleasant enough man, Helen told them and they were not worrying, that she did not find it gay living where she had always been living. [my emphasis]⁷

I received one student paper called How Mrs. Furr became Miss Furr, arguing that Helen Furr and Mrs. Furr are one and the same and that the latter divorces Mr. Furr because she needs to escape from her stifling bourgeois milieu. Such wholesale misconstruction of Miss Furr and Miss Skeene (whose names play so nicely on fur and skin) suggests that before we jump off into speculations about Stein’s epistemology, her treatment of gender, or her situation as a secular Jewish expatriate, we had better read the text in question. Fortunately, Miss Furr and Miss Skeene is only five pages long.

Reading Contemporaneously

For the New Critics, who are often considered to be the exemplary practitioners of close reading, the guiding assumption, as I noted above, was that the given poem would yield up a key design—what Reuben Brower called the aura around a bright, clear centre. Cleanth Brooks, for example, based his reading of Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn on the central paradox conveyed by the phrase Cold Pastoral! in the final stanza:

The word pastoral suggests warmth, spontaneity, the natural and the informal as well as the idyllic; the simple, and the informally charming. What the urn tells is a flowery tale, a leaf-fring’d legend, but the sylvan historian works in terms of marble. The urn itself is cold, and the life beyond life which it expresses is life which has been formed, arranged. . . . It is as enigmatic as eternity is, for like eternity, its history is beyond time, outside time, and for this very reason bewilders our time-ridden minds: it teases us.⁸

It is from this recognition that Brooks now moves to the enigmatic ending of the Ode: Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all, / Ye know on earth and all ye need to know. The urn, writes Brooks, is beautiful, and yet its beauty is based—what else is the poem concerned with?—on an imaginative perception of essentials. Such a vision is beautiful but it is also true (Well Wrought Urn 164).

This is an admirable reading of Keats’s Ode, but it begins with three premises few of us would accept today: (1) that the language of poetry is, as Brooks himself puts it, the language of paradox; (2) that this central truth remains the same across the ages—and, by implication, that it is unrelated to culture, gender, and a given poem’s historical moment; and (3) that poetics is equivalent to hermeneutics, the critic’s role being to determine what it is a given poem says. True, Brooks himself was aware of what he called, in a chapter of The Well Wrought Urn, the heresy of paraphrase and insisted that a poem is a pattern of resolutions and balances and harmonizations, developed through a temporal scheme (203). But the resolutions and balances he speaks of are all thematic—very little is said of rhythm and syntax or, for that matter, of language itself—and in any case they must be resolutions and balances and harmonizations—which is to say the poem (or novel or drama) must be centered.

But what happens when, as in so much of the innovative writing of the present, there is no aura around a bright, clear centre, no balance between given tensions, no resolution of opposites? Critical discourse has had a very difficult time with such poetry: either it dismisses the new work out of hand as simply too opaque, obscure, and disorganized to reward any kind of sustained attention, or it is satisfied to talk around questions of meaning and value, relating the poetic work in question to a particular theory or an alternate discourse—say, from anthropology or ecology.

The work of English poet Tom Raworth is a case in point. Now in his sixties, Raworth has long been regarded as an important outsider poet, an experimentalist, with a following primarily in the United States, where he has published dozens of small-press books, given readings, and held major residencies and visiting lectureships. In the United Kingdom there have been a few respectful and serious essays on his work by such leading academics as John Barrell and Colin MacCabe, both of whom have discussed the dissolution of lyric subjectivity in Raworth’s poetry from the perspective of poststructuralist and cultural theory.⁹ But even though the Carcanet Press has now published Raworth’s Collected Poems (2003)—a volume of almost six hundred pages—there remains, as I discovered when I was asked to review the book for the Times Literary Supplement, almost no sustained discussion of the poetry itself. The one exception is a recent special issue of Nate Dorward’s excellent but little known Canadian journal The Gig (summer 2003), and even Dorward has remarked, in an essay for the Chicago Review, that in the case of a poetry like Raworth’s, any act of ‘close reading’—of ‘reading for content’—would either be willfully synthetic or merely document the trace of private associations (mine) that are both unstable and of doubtful value to another reader. To submit a poem or short passage to a quick and contained ‘close reading’ before extrapolating to a larger poetic entity, Dorward argues, suggests that any other text by the poet in question would do just as well—that they are all the same. Moreover, close reading is . . . problematic in dealing with highly open-ended poetry, since close reading often carries within it ideals of a ‘complete’ reading that are at odds with poetries that emphasize open-endedness and arbitrariness. Indeed, as in the case of John Ashbery, it is a mistake to expect that "every detail in the poem can or should be justified."¹⁰

This is an appealing argument: why shouldn’t open-ended poetry be subject to open-ended, more free-wheeling readings? Why submit an Ashbery or Raworth poem to a close reading that may distort the larger parameters of the poet’s oeuvre? Dorward inadvertently answers his own question when he admits, "In proportion to the length of Raworth’s career [the Collected Poems covers the period 1966 to the present] and the evident importance of his work to several generations of poets from the UK, North America, and Europe, there has been remarkably little substantial criticism about his poetry, a poetry, Dorward admits, that remains largely elusive (On Raworth’s Sonnets 18). If, after more than three decades of publication, a poet’s oeuvre continues to be little known and largely elusive," surely something must be wrong. For either Raworth’s work really is tediously obscure, as his detractors think, or there must be a way of accounting for the strong appeal of his poetry, especially to a younger generation.

Suppose, then, that we take a stab at reading an early (1968), little-known Raworth poem called These Are Not Catastrophes I Went out of my Way to Look for:¹¹

corners of my mouth sore

i keep licking them, drying them with the back of my hand

bitten nails but three i am growing

skin frayed round the others white flecks on them all

no post today, newspapers and the childrens’

comic, i sit

in the lavatory reading heros the spartan

and the iron man

flick ash in the bath trying to hit the plughole

listen to the broom outside examine

new pencil marks on the wall, a figure four

the shadows, medicines, a wicker

laundry basket lid pink with toothpaste

between my legs i read

                          levi stra

                           origina

                     quality clo

                                leaning too far forward

into the patch of sunlight (Collected Poems 37)

Like Williams’s Danse Russe, this is a domestic poem, expressing a certain malaise about domesticity. But it resembles neither the work of Raworth’s closest poet-friend, the American Ed Dorn, nor the domestic lyric of his British contemporaries. Philip Larkin has a poem called Home Is So Sad, that mourns the family house, bereft of its dead owners, with the words, You can see how it was: / Look at the pictures and the cutlery. / The music in the piano stool. That vase.¹² What pictures, what sheet music, what vase? Raworth’s own little domestic poem refuses Larkin’s patronizing contract with the reader (We know how dreary Mum and Dad’s décor was, don’t we?), giving us a devastatingly graphic Portrait of the Artist caught up in the domestic round, a kind of latter-day Leopold Bloom reading Photo-Bits as he sits on the toilet.

These Are Not Catastrophes I Went out of my Way to Look for is a typical Raworth title: this poet’s titles tend to be short, single words like Ace or Writing or Act, or deliciously bombastic long ones like My Face is My Own, I Thought, You’ve Ruined My Evening / You’ve Ruined My Life, or Come Back, Come Back, O Glittering and White! The word catastrophe comes to us from Greek: kata (down) plus strophe (turn)—a strophe that also designated the first section of a Greek choral ode and, later, simply a structural unit in a given poem. If catastrophe originally referred to the dénouement of tragedy and hence a sudden disaster, it has more recently come to mean an absolute failure, often in humiliating or embarrassing circumstances.¹³ And in this sense, Raworth does have his daily domestic catastrophes. His one real decision, the poem suggests, is to have let three of his nails grow—one does need nails for various physical acts—even as there is skin frayed round the others white flecks on them all. Lick and fleck prepare the ground for the flick of flick ash in the bath trying to hit the plughole. Accedia is a state of licking the corners of one’s mouth and listening to the broom outside the lavatory door (evidently his wife is trying to tidy up), while examining new pencil marks on the wall, a figure four. Our man on the toilet does not consider erasing these child graffiti; he just looks at them. And in this context, the wicker / laundry basket lid pink with toothpaste alludes slyly to Robert Creeley’s A Wicker Basket, that now-classic ballad of drunken regression and solipsism. But whereas Creeley’s speaker hides from the world inside his wicker basket, Raworth’s, scanning comic books with titles like Heros the Spartan and The Iron Man, may be said to keep in touch with the catastrophe of Greek tragedy.

The poet’s reading between my legs is especially apposite in this regard:

                        levi stra

                         origina

                   quality clo

Literally, one surmises, the poet is contemplating not his navel but the label affixed to his jeans: Levi-stra[uss] / origina[l] / quality clo[thes]. But clo can also refer to closet (as in water-closet) or to the closure Levi Strauss was always looking for in his structuralist systems—and that Raworth himself rejects. Origina[l] is thus ambiguous, pointing to the poet’s own writing as well as his reading, for example his justifying the right margin here so as to produce the column a-a-o, which gives us Raworth’s own alpha and omega. But let’s not get carried away: what happens when you lean too far forward on the toilet? Well, it may mean one misses—and that would be literally going out of one’s way to produce a catastrophe one certainly hadn’t been looking for.

Is it foolish or pedantic to try to justify the detail in such a seemingly casual little poem? Perhaps not, for every word and morpheme, I would suggest, is carefully chosen, beginning with those corners of my mouth that relate to the corners of the lavatory and of the newspaper page as well. And further, the first syllable of corners—rhyming with sore plays on the word core, as if to say it is my very core that is sore. Meaning is not what Raworth does away with—on the contrary—but he does avoid those causal networks to which readers of magazine verse and popular anthologies are still accustomed. Why is the speaker letting three of his fingernails grow rather than two or four? There can be no rational answer to such a question. And why doesn’t he have anything better to do than to flick ash into the tub’s plughole? Again, we cannot point to a cause; the condition simply is, and the poem’s aim is to define it as accurately as possible.

Accuracy—what Pound called constatation of fact—is reflected in the very rhythms of These Are Not Catastrophes. The poem’s nineteen seemingly diaristic lines are grouped into stanzas as follows: 4, 4, 3, 2, 1 (3 half lines)—2. The poem’s forward push seems to be toward this fragment (ll. 15–17), whose epiphany is no more than the truncated recitation of the designer label Levi Strauss / original / quality clothes. But it is after this discovery that the poet can lean forward into the patch of sunlight—a phrase highly figured in its alliteration of t’s—and discharge his duty. The anticipated catastrophe would seem to be behind him.

Raworth’s later poems develop this mode with increasing complexity and resonance; many take their cue from the long columnar poem (between one and four words per column) of more than two thousand lines called Ace,¹⁴ whose four sections are suggestively titled in think, in mind, in motion, and in place, and whose coda, Bolivia: another end of ace, has shorter sections called in transit, in part, in consideration, and in love. The challenge is to see how these parts relate: is in think the same as in mind? And how does in love relate to being in transit? Within the poem itself, these syntactic conundrums are worked out.

When Raworth performs Ace orally, he recites it at top speed, no change of inflection, and no pause for breath—a bravura performance that has been imitated by a score of younger poets. The even tone has often been interpreted as the absence of affect: everything seems to be as important as everything else. But when one reads Ace a few times, it reveals itself as curiously emotional in that its forward thrust, its drive toward change, is everywhere short-circuited by refrain (e.g., SHOCK SHOCK), repetition, rhyme, echolalia, and double entendre so that the asserted continuity is increasingly difficult to maintain. Accordingly, the poem’s meditation on identity, time, and memory, varied in myriad ways, becomes a complex process in which the Ace never trumps for long. Raworth’s pronouns shift from I to you to he, the referents never being specified; and the language oscillates between straightforward abstract phrase to found text, citation, allusion to film plots and pop recordings, and every manner of cliché. Ace opens with a rhyme for the title—new face—and continues from my home / what do you think / I’ll voice out / of the news. A record is played with a light pickup and we