from the dust of the archives...

…For poetry makes nothing happen…

There are nearly as many perspectives on poetry and the creative process as there are poets and creative people. In fact, due to the progression of time and the generally progressive nature of creative people, there are probably quite a few more artistic perspectives than there are artists. To cast some light on the nature of poetry, rather than wading, waste deep, through theories, it may be profitable to hold to the light two creative patterns that have stood up to some degree through time and that have been more than a light and momentary affliction on the minds and souls of those who have chanced upon them. Essentially, our question is this: Is the poet a creative thief or an inspiring creator? How should we address the one who delves into our collective memory, mines the images of our thoughts, and mixing them with blood, reforms us in his own image? And in order to achieve this, we will lightly examine poesis and genesis, two of the most momentous creative patterns ever to kick in the doors of humanity.

Well, then, let us take up an odyssey, a search for something that might cast light on such a devious man. Let us go down to the sea and our finely crafted vessel, let us drag our ship down to the bright water, and setting the mast in its place, let us set sail, riding the ocean in search of a true landfall.

The necessity for poetry is as clear as water. The chaotic nature of the world is apparent to all. All around us we see an intricately woven cloth, a world with a staggering order, an order of being and motion that disappears into the limits of our sight in the minute, the magnificent, and the temporal. But this tapestry is fluttering in the breeze. All is flux and an ironic storm. Flux and motion are inherent natural principles of the world and of human experience. And almost everyone seems to express that chaotic element of the world in terms and imagery of ocean, the sea, or something that somehow expresses fluidity of form. It is important to establish the relationship of the poet to the necessity of his poetry, or to this fluid context. There are two major options when dealing with a raging ocean: drown or float. The nature of the classical poet can be seen in Homer’s Odysseus. Essentially, he is the only one in the Odyssey who manages to stay on top of the water, at least most of the time. He is a wave-rider. Whether it is by ship or by raft or by whatever is left of his ship or raft, Odysseus is riding the storm out on the chaos of the sea. There is actually a third option, beyond drowning and floating. In contrast to the poet, Genesis presents the creator in a different relationship to the chaotic (hammayim). (Elohim) is seen hovering over the face of the waters. The nature of this ancient artist is such that he is able to transcend the chaotic deep without craft. Unlike the poet, this sort of creator is by nature above the chaos.

Upon the grounds of established necessity, the nature of the actual creative process leaps heartily to the fore. Poetry, like shipbuilding, is (tekne). A poem, like a ship, is not created ex nihilo. Rather, a poet is a craftsman who takes images and forges them together, fitting them tightly and beautifully to a purposeful end. We see Odysseus, a master craftsman. Taking forms and images, words and thoughts he weaves them into an intricate and beautiful web, one that depicts his homegoing. His tale convinces the Phaiakians, educates them, and it even happens to enrich him and purchase conveyance to his home. In contrast, we see the creator (Elohim) calling his artistry into existence apart from any fashioning. Word and thing are one. His making is complete poetry.

The poet was not lying who said that poets are thieves. Poems are not crafted of gopher wood, but of images. And images are not cut from the forests of Norway or of Lebanon, but from the very word-forests of the minds and memories of those who are to be re-created. Poetry is taking a tree from the forest, reshaping its nature and returning it to flourish again, taking root in the same soil from which it was taken. Odysseus, in order to craft his poem, must, upon a finely crafted ship, cross (okeanos) reach the shores of Hades, and give life and words to the images and shades of the remembered dead.

For both creator and poet, a wall exists. Men die, and dead men have no breath. The dead have no voice, no mind. How shall they speak?

“Easily I will tell you and put it in your understanding.
Any one of the perished dead you allow to come up
To the blood will give you a true answer, but if you begrudge this
To any one, he will return to the place where he came from.”

The poet gives mind and voice to the remembered dead by allowing them to drink of the blood sacrificed to the ‘strengthless heads of the perished dead’ and to the blind prophet. With a sense of piety, the poet gives words to the dead, he gives them form and the ability to speak by choosing whose voices shall remain. Holding his sword over the blood for others, he refuses to allow them a true voice. The poet, if he cannot make the dead live, can at least make their images speak, and form the living. In crossing back over the river of death, the creator also uses a sort of bridge of blood. The creator, having made a sacrifice of blood is able to enact a resurrection more complete than that of forming memory and voice. As he once stooping down, breathed life into the father of man, he is able to once again breathe life into lifeless dust.

Breathing life again into the lifeless, the creator actually enacts a sort of redemption. Chaos is overcome within the actual realm of the (kosmos). The overarching poem of creation is rescued and is able to stand in the light, firm and real and complete. Chaos and order find an ultimate resolution, as the creator transcends both. The poet rather must walk his readers out of the realm of the living. He must take them from the melee of motion and, crossing (okeanos), he must rule over them in Hades, in an afterlife of images. For those images are the only solid thing to which he can anchor. Forming a sort of collective memory he crafts a sort of dead existence realm where men can live and breathe in order far from the light and the sea.
In order to create such a world, to craft a poem and a man, one must see. The poet must see the world as it is. Climbing from the realm of images, into the light, he must know the world as it is, seeing the sea and riding its waves with skill.

Sailing lightly through these waters, a great question seems to arise. Whether the artist is poet or creator, seeing him to some measure for what he is, we are forced to realize that we exist in relation to him. To the extent that we live in civilization, we are the craft of poets. Even the creator appears to us in a poem. And most of what we know about the natural world is handed down. Weighing all, in the end, one recognizes that from which he comes. In the end, whether the poet creates or crafts it is the same. Poiesis or genesis, we must call him father.