I don’t know who invented the idea that the apolitical poet is a myth, or where the idea originated.
“It’s a myth, of course that poets are apolitical, though tone-deaf commentators may only hear polemic as politically engaged”, I read last week at the beginning of the editorial in the latest copy of the Poetry Review , and hesitated mid-sentence, brought up short and split-second unsure, as I always am when confronted by the myth word, as to whether its use is intended to take me towards, or away from, the belief in this Ur-idea.
Uncle Wally taps me on the shoulder in those fractionary moments. “Urgeschichte”, he whispers in my ear, correcting my English with this untranslatable word (‘primal history’ being as close as it comes).
It speaks something of our process. Along we are sauntering, first thing on a bright April morning, out on the open road, sunshine and spring flowers, the promise of freshness, and not a vapour trail in the sky. Then something descends from the sky, an iron axe as it often seems to appear to me, so far as I am able to describe this momentary shift at all, size impossible to gauge, as I catch a glimpse of a heavy and dense falling object.
Brought up short, and often in the form of a word or phrase. ‘Myth’. ‘Baroque’. Or ‘Working Class’ for that matter. Where is and what is the working class, ak asks in the last post. It is well known that in 1842 the twenty two year old Friedrich Engels came to Manchester, and that the terrible conditions which met his eyes inspired him to write Die Lage der arbeitenden Klasse in England (first published in Germany in 1844). As for the novel term, proletariat, he unearthed the Latin word from the German lecture notes of the renowned scholar of ancient Rome, Barthold Georg Niebuhr (1776-1831), who had invented it in order to describe those people of Rome who had no property, and relied on the bartering of their labour in order to survive. Thence applied by Engels without historical reference, and confusing citizens and slaves, in order to describe those people who are also apparently ripe for revolt. History equally tells us that the first English translation only appeared in England in 1892.
So we go on, less sauntering now, more like staggering as we probe forward, attempting to feel our way around these stumbling blocks, or scandles, as I have referred to them before, defining the meaning of these obstacles in the road more accurately (and quoting Frank Kermode).
When people give categories like Baroque, I dont know what they mean, a friend said to me, as we walked together mid-morning last weekend. I was relieved to find a kindred spirit. Or Working Class, I might have replied. Or, as my friend went on to say, Roman à Clef.
Sometimes, when the iron axe falls falls from the sky, nothing can be seen, and all that can be detected is the softest sigh.