Purdy on Cohen

 

Al Purdy has disappointed me. It does not pay to read what one of your idols thinks of another of your idols. It does not pay to have Al Purdy review the poetry of Leonard Cohen. 

Purdy complains that Cohen is “Absolutely conventional in metre and form.” “They [Cohen’s poems] gained distinction through other people’s poems.” “Most avant-garde work south of the border seemed to have escaped his attention.”

The problem is, it seems to me, that Purdy is objecting to Cohen for not being Purdy. 

Perhaps Cohen would do the same if asked to critique Purdy. But Cohen notably refuses to pass judgment on the poetry of his peers; he cannot be drawn out, for example, on comparing his songwriting to Bob Dylan.

To be fair to Purdy, perhaps he did it for money. I think Purdy knows as well as anyone that poetry is ineffable, that there is no sense talking about this or that technique. It comes if it comes, and it works if it works. But people want him to say something, so he comes up with something to say.

Ironically, in complaining that Cohen is too conventional, Purdy is repeating the conventional criticism of Cohen: Louis Dudek said the same. It was this criticism, according to Cohen’s biographer Sylvie Simmons, that made him decide to move on from poetry to songwriting. Only there could his love of versifying be allowed. Joni Mitchell was similarly driven out of her first love, the visual arts, because the art schools scorned representational painting.

But why does poetry have to be unconventional? Why does it have to be experimental? 

In fact, many literary forms rely on convention: that is what genre is about. In genre literature, points are gained by following the conventions, perhaps playfully, but not by failing to follow them: sonnets, fairy tales, cowboy stories, tragedies, the blues.

In fact, poetry relies on convention more than most other forms. The medium of prose is the printed page. The medium of drama is the spoken word. The medium of poetry is memory.

Memory loves and relies on conventions.

As a result, almost the moment poetry violates instead of following convention, it destroys itself.

Al Purdy’s own best work relies on and refers to memory: 

But it has been a long time since

And we must enquire the way of strangers.

If you want one reason why poetry is no longer a popular art form, look here: the idea since Eliot (who was frying altogether other fish) that it needs to be experimental.

The idea of experimental art is a flowover from scientism, the ruling idolatry of our time: the pagan notion that science is the measure of all things. Science does indeed proceed by experiment, and the old is forever superseded by the new. Art does not. Homer or Shakespeare are not superseded by Toni Morrison or Charles Bukowski, as Ptolemy is superseded by Copernicus, or Paracelsus by Pasteur. An achievement in the arts is more or less immortal, eternal. Beauty remains beauty forever.

In an effort to achieve novelty, current poets have thrown over all the elements of good poetry. No wonder if the poetry no longer works as well. 

It is true that novelty, freshness, is sometimes desirable as an aesthetic quality. It is valuable in humorous verse, for example. It can also be overdone, be recherche.

As to sounding like other poets, Purdy needs to explain what is wrong with that. Shakespeare made a rather decent career out of sounding like other people in his verse. Someone—was it Blake?--said, “a bad poet seems to steal from others. A good poet really does.” Writing a poem “in the style of” Catullus or Virgil used to be and ought to be a prime accomplishment—given that it is good.

I would have expected Purdy to be too wise to fall for such foolish scientism. My estimation is lowered a notch.