Friday, October 31, 2014

“Small Luste to Prate”

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, “The Land of Cockaigne,” c. 1567

Lazy morning. “Your lasy bones I pretende so to blisse, / That you shall haue small luste to prate any more.” Blisse meaning “wound.” Lazy turning to fret. That “small luste to prate any more”—whithersoever it cometh? Soonest mended, soonest—what?—ended? (Recall the Ashbery: “To reduce all this to a small variant, / To step free at last, minuscule on the gigantic plateau— / This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free.”) Somewhere beyond the constant yammering, its insobriety and its inconsequence. One no longer trusts the impertinent quotidian thrust, beleaguered by it, chafed by it. Too insistently of late: every word a loss of world. Williams (epigraph to “Excerpts from a Critical Sketch”):
      Poetry? Words: figments of the mind, of no real substance.
      What more then is light? It is precisely a figment of the mind if the apprehension of it be our consideration.
      But it is an emanation consequent on microscopic action in the sun.
      Then words are the same, call the microscopic action which is their source ‘Socrates’ or what you will.
Or recall Hart Crane (out of “Chaplinesque”): “We make our meek adjustments, / Contented with such random consolations / As the wind deposits / In slithered and too ample pockets. / / For we can still love the world . . .” Every music a muffling. Williams again—out of a letter to Pound dated “June, 1932” (Selected Letters):
      I’ve been playing with a theory that the inexplicitness of modern verse as compared with, let us say, the Iliad, and our increasingly difficult music in the verse as compared with the more or less downrightness of their line forms—have been the result of a clearly understandable revolution in poetic attitude. Whereas formerly the music which accompanied the words amplified, certified and released them, today the words we write, failing a patent music, have become the music itself, and the understanding of the individual (presumed) is now that which used to be the words.
      This blasts out of existence forever all the puerilities of the dum te dum versifiers and puts it up to the reader to be a man—if possible. There are not many things to believe, but the trouble is no one believes them. Modern verse forces belief. It is music to that, in every sense, when if ever and in whoever it does or may exist. Without the word (the man himself) the music (verse as we know it today) is only a melody of sounds. But it is magnificent when it plays about some kind of certitude.
With no belief, no certitude. With no certitude, no magnificence. And a sense that “our” humdrum pervasive “inexplicitness” is now the equal to Williams’s “puerilities of the dum te dum versifiers.” Impolitic publicly to admit. See the satirist Nicholas Amhurst (1697-1742), out of “The Inscription, Which Was Lately Found on a Large Marble Pillar Amongst Some Ruins at Whitehall,” docking us all: “His poor fallacious, tinsel Eloquence / Tickled the Ear, but ne’er inform’d the Sense; / Whilst every plausible Harangue affords / A specious, empty, puzzling Rote of Words.” Whither the deft unappeasable music that turns one to the world?

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Back (John Sloan / Nabokov / William Carlos Williams)

John Sloan, 1871–1951
(Photograph by Arnold Newman)

Back across the rain-bothered stretches of Pennsylvania, across the cloud-tamped flats of Ohio, the fling of percept lulled by the wheel. John Sloan: “Study cloud formations. Don’t be satisfied with rococo, Spencerian clouds. Observe the flat bottoms of heavy rain clouds, the fine patterns of mackerel skies.” Too few hawks.

A cumulus of notes (or a ragout):
Sharp-shinned hawk dead on the bridle path in Pelham Bay Park. Siwanoy Trail: Flocks of yellow-rumped warblers, double-crested cormorants and herring gulls spotting the lagoon, northern mockingbird, song sparrows. Brown creeper working a tree trunk near the Bartow-Pell.

John Sloan (off a placard at the Parrish Art Museum): “Instead of imitating the colors in nature, I decided on some quality of color that interested me and set a limited palette.”

Montauk: Palm warblers in the grass, great black-backed gull, white-throated sparrow, dark-eyed juncos, Solitary seal bobbing.

Hudson River overlook near Bear Mountain: a pileated woodpecker knifing into the rust-colored canopy below. “Order quiets the mind.”

Pelham Bay Park, Kazimiroff Trail: Fifty or so brant in the lagoon. Oak woods mad with hermit thrushes. Tiny flock of ruby-crowned kinglets (“an arm’s reach away”). Others (“the concordaunt ease of variaunt things”): double-crested cormorant, great egret, mallard, herring gull, ring-billed gull, red-bellied woodpecker, blue jay, black-capped chickadee, tufted titmouse, white-breasted nuthatch, American robin, European starling, yellow-rumped warbler, palm warbler, song sparrow, white-throated sparrow, swamp sparrow, American goldfinch.

Rusty blackbird on a telephone wire.
And, out of a paucity of reading, Thomas De Quincey’s remark—originally in an 1839 piece called “Lake Reminiscences, from 1807 to 1830: No. 1. William Wordsworth” written for Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine:
I resembled Wordsworth—namely, that in early youth I laboured under a peculiar embarrassment and penury of words, when I sought to convey my thoughts adequately upon interesting subjects: neither was it words only that I wanted; but I could not unravel, I could not even make perfectly conscious to myself, the subsidiary thoughts into which one leading thought often radiates; or, at least, I could not do this with anything like the rapidity requisite for conversation . . . and thus partly—partly also from my invincible habit of reverie—at that era of my life, I had a most distinguished talent ‘pour le silence.’” Adding that Wordsworth, suffered “pretty much the same infirmity.
How many writers (believe, rightly in some cases, they) cannot talk. (I think of Nabokov who, in the “Foreword” to the book of interviews, Strong Opinions (1973), writes: “I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child. . . . At parties, if I attempt to entertain people with a good story, I have to go back to every other sentence for oral erasures and inserts.”) How odd, hence, that Wordsworth ought so famously to call for a poetry of “a man speaking to men.” And that that ought to become a mark of writerly authenticity (see William Carlos Williams, in “Excerpts from a Critical Sketch”):
      We seek a language which will not be at least a deformation of speech as we know it—but will embody all the advantageous jumps, swiftnesses, colors, movements of the day—
      —that will, at least, not exclude language as spoken—all language (present) as spoken.
Humph. Suppose the “advantageous jumps, swiftnesses, colors, movements” occur but rarely under the barking regime of repartee, and never amongst the watchdog tutelage of études conversationnelles? Suppose language’s very recklessness and fluidity is at the behest of the silent page?

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Max Jacob / William Carlos Williams

Max Jacob, 1876–1944
(Photograph by Carl Van Vechten)

Spurious sense of repose occasioned by incipient departure. Points east, domani. So I go into a reverie of negligence and lassitude, making a tiny extraneous world without recourse to “the world.” Or I read of Juan Gris working in the studio at 13, rue Ravignan, circa 1907. He is straightfacedly telling Max Jacob, “I only stroke dogs with my left hand so that if I am bitten I shall still have my right hand to paint with.” Jacob is muttering to himself, composing some jocular precipitous ode to the surround, the way the ungainly wooden houses adhering badly to the hill of Montmartre make one ponder what’s ineffable, or what’s not:
La Rue Ravignan

      « On ne se baigne pas deux fois dans le même fleuve », disait le philosophe Héraclite. Pourtant, ce sont toujours les mêmes qui remontent! Aux mêmes heures, ils passent gais ou tristes. Vous tous, passants de la rue Ravignan, je vous ai donné les noms des défunts de l´Histoire! Voici Agamemnon! voici madame Hanska! Ulysse est un laitier! Patrocle est au bas de la rue qu’un Pharaon est près de moi. Castor et Pollux sont les dames du cinquième. Mais toi, vieux chiffonnier, toi, qui, au féerique matin, viens enlever les débris encore vivants quand j’éteins ma bonne grosse lampe, toi que je ne connais pas, mystérieux et pauvre chiffonnier, toi, chiffonnier, je t’ai nommé d’un nom célèbre et noble, je t’ai nommé Dostoïewsky.
Out of Le Cornet à dés (1917). In John Ashbery’s rendering:
The Rue Ravignan

“One does not bathe twice in the same stream,” said the philosopher Heraclitus. Yet it is always the same ones who mount the street! Always at the same time of day they pass by, happy or sad. All of you, passers-by of the Rue Ravignan, I have named you after the illustrious dead. There is Agamemnon! There is Madame Hanska! Ulysses is a milkman! When Patroclus appears at the end of the street a Pharaoh is beside me! Castor and Pollux are the ladies of the fifth floor. But thou, old ragpicker, who come in the enchanted morning to take away the still living rubbish as I am putting out my good big lamp, thou whom I know not, mysterious and impoverished ragpicker, I have given thee a celebrated and noble name, I have named thee Dostoievsky.
Jacob, out of L’Art poétique (1922): « La poésie moderne saute toutes les explications. » (Literally: “Modern poetry leaps over all explanations.”) A welcome defiance. And, out of the “Préface de 1916” in Le Cornet à dés: « Le poeme est un objet construit et non la devanture d’un bijoutier. . . . Une œuvre d’art vaut par elle-même et non par les confrontations qu’on en peut faire avec la réalité. » (In Zack Rogow’s translation, out of the Michael Brownstein-edited The Dice Cup: Selected Prose Poems: “The poem is a constructed object and not a jewelry store window. . . . An art work has value in itself and not because it can be used for confrontations with reality.”) Tout simplement: a work of art exists in its own right and not in relation to reality.

Recalling, again, Williams. Here out of the “Prologue” to Kora in Hell: Improvisations (1920):
      XIII. No. 3. A poet witnessing the chicory flower and realizing its virtues of form and color so constructs his praise of it as to borrow no particle from right or left. He gives his poem over to the flower and its plant themselves that they may benefit by those cooling winds of the imagination which thus returned upon them will refresh them at their task of saving the world. But what does it mean, remarked his friends?
“Borrow no particle right or left.” Back in a week or so.

Monday, October 20, 2014

William Carlos Williams / Juan Gris

Juan Gris, 1887–1927
(Photograph by Man Ray)

Rainy cold morning. Out yesterday into the 32º Fahrenheit sun-up at West Lake. High blue sky with a few sweeps of clouds. The ongoing tumult and ruckus of several bluebirds, sun “steaming” the frost off the gone-to-seed goldenrods. Three wood ducks in the deadwood swamp. Sharp-looking white-crowned sparrow in a brushy corner of the old field, its rose-orange bill under the emphatic striped cap. Something to etch into memory, a hold against the onslaught of days. (Calvino, quoting Leonardo da Vinci’s rendering of some immense “antediluvian sea monster,” evidenced by marine fossils found in mountain rock: “Oh how many times were you seen among the waves of the great swollen ocean, looming like a mountain, defeating and overwhelming them, and with your black bristly back furrowing the sea waters, and with stately and grave bearing!”)

Re-reading swathes of Williams: Out of the Selected Letters, a lengthy number—dated only “[1932]”—addressed to Kay Boyle:
. . . I have no belief in the continuity of history.* To me the classic lives now just as it did then—or not at all. The “Greek” is just as much in Preakness as it was in Athens. Everything we know is a local virtue—if we know it at all—the only difference between the force of a great work and a lesser one being lack of brain and fire in the second. In other words, art can be made of anything—provided it be seen, smelt, touched, apprehended and understood to be what it is—the flesh of a constantly repeated permanence. This must be a lot of bosh to anyone who isn’t intimate with the materials. But to one who is working with the stuff it may mean something. If not—
      But it doesn’t mean enough to create form. It means this however—that whatever form we create during the next ten years will be, in excellence, like all the classic inventions, a new thing, a thing intrinsic in the times. It will probably foretell the decade that is to follow it. It will take its shape from the character of its age, not the “social” character, if so positively, not satirically. It will not be the symptom of a chronic bellyache or—something else. It will be like no classic which has preceded it. Why do we not read more of Juan Gris? He knew these things in painting and wrote well of them.
      I have been working with prose, since I didn’t know what to do with poetry. Perhaps I have been in error. Maybe I should be slaving at verse . . .
      All I can see finally to rely on is the seriousness of poetry itself, that it stands equal to any endeavor. The fact that it takes us, turns over the mind, because the required form is not easy to come at, discloses its pertinence to the time and the intelligence. That must be the beginning, as it is about all there is to take hold of. There is, you see, in our minds the possibility of a technique which may be used. It must be large enough, free enough, elastic enough, new enough yet firm enough to hold the new well, without spilling. It must have a form.
I love Williams’s irascibility, and contradictoriness. (He notes, like Whitman: “I myself can be accused of contradictions. Possibly I have contradicted myself.”) Of Juan Gris: there’s a lecture called “On the Possibilities of Painting,” delivered to students of philosophy at the Sorbonne in 1924. In it:
      One of my friends, a painter,** has written: “Nails are not made from nails but from iron.” I apologize for contradicting him, but I believe exactly the opposite. Nails are made from nails, for if the idea of the possibility of a nail did not exist in advance, there would be a serious risk that the material might be used to make a hammer or a curling tong.
      A painting is not made simply with canvas, brushes and colours. One can produce a landscape, a nude woman, gleaming saucepans, triangles or squares, but there will be no painting unless the idea of painting exists a priori. We must therefore try to find out what painting consists of and from what it springs.
Pertinent to the seriousness of Williams’s search for what he calls—lovely definition of art—”flesh of a constantly repeated permanence.” Poems are not made from words, poems are made from poems.
* A line that Anselm Berrigan seizes for use in “Zero Star Hotel,” the long patchwork quilt-like piece he dedicates “for Douglas Oliver (1937-2000)”: “you know, I think / enough of me / to understand that / I have no belief / in the continuity / of history, if anyone / had died I could / like anyone, they’d / like me and feel / flattery towards objects”

** Georges Braque.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Williams’s “Speech Rhythm,” &c.

William Carlos Williams, 1883-1963

Chomping at the air, at nothing. Besieged by that nothing, its casual unpreparedness. Nevertheless, a sallying out, a “mere improvise” (see Shelley’s remark apropos the verse drama Hellas: “I doubt whether, if recited on the Thespian waggon to an Athenian village at the Dionysiaca, it would have obtained the prize of the goat.”) Out of an essay called “Speech Rhythm” William Carlos Williams submitted to Harriet Monroe’s Poetry in 1913:
No action, no creative action is complete but a period from a greater action going in rhythmic course, i.e., an Odyssey, is rightly considered not an isolated unit but a wave of a series from hollow through crest to hollow. No part in its excellence but partakes of the essential nature of the whole.
      This is the conception of the action that I want.
      In the other direction, inward: Imagination creates an image, point by point, piece by piece, segment by segment—into a whole, living. But each part as it plays into its neighbor, each segment into its neighbor segment and every part into every other, causing the whole—exists naturally in rhythm, and as there are waves there are tides and as there are ridges in the sand there are bars after bars . . .
      Each piece of work, rhythmic in whole, is then in essence an assembly of tides, waves, ripples—in short, of greater and lesser rhythmic particles regularly repeated or destroyed . . .
      For practical purposes and for me the unit is of a convenient length, such as may be appreciated at one stroke of the attention. It must not be so small as not to tax the attention, that is, to hold it; it should be in good scale as the architects say . . .
      The rhythm unit is simply any repeated sequence of lengths and heights. Upon this ether the sounds are strung in their variety—slipping, clinging, overreaching, triumphing but always going forward even through moments of total disorder in the advance. . . .
Waves : tides :: ridges in the sand : sandbars. Self-similar mechanisms across differing scales. “No part in its excellence but partakes of the essential nature of the whole.” Is Williams’s “Speech Rhythm” pointing to a kind of “fractal verse” avant la lettre? See Alice Fulton’s “Of Formal, Free, and Fractal Verse: Singing the Body Eclectic” (1986), with its “tentative exploration of fractal precepts”:
. . . any line when examined closely (or magnified) will reveal itself to be as richly detailed as was the larger poem from which it was taken; the poem will contain an infinite regression of details, a nesting of pattern within pattern . . . ; digression, interruption, fragmentation and lack of continuity will be regarded as formal functions rather than lapses into formlessness; all directions of motion and rhythm will be equally probable . . .
Harriet Monroe rejected Williams’s essay, “returned it as incomprehensible”—according to Mike Weaver, who found “Speech Rhythm” “uncatalogued among the Viola Baxter Jordan papers” and printed excerpts of it in William Carlos Williams: The American Background (1971). Williams, out of the Selected Letters (1957), writing to Monroe in a letter dated 10 October 1913, presumably regarding the rejected piece:
My dear Miss Monroe: How a thing can be hammered out until it is first perceived is beyond me—but if your editorial judgment is correct—patience.
      To me, what is woefully lacking in our verse and in our criticism is not hammered out stuff, but stuff to be hammered out. A free forum, there is the need, which asks only “Is it new, interesting?” I should think, even, that at times you would be concerned lest you get nothing but that which is hammered and worked out—except when the divine Ezra bludgeons you into it.
      France is France; we are not France. Would you not rather have anticipated a Lincoln than acclaimed a McMahon?
      Figure me, of course, the Lincoln.
And again, a few days thereafter (14 October 1913):
My dear Miss Monroe: To tell the truth, I myself never quite feel that I know what I am talking about—if I did, and when I do, the thing written seems nothing to me. However, what I do write and allow to survive I always feel is mighty worth while and that nobody else has ever come as near as I have to the thing I have intimated if not expressed. To me it’s a matter of first understanding that which may not yet be put to words. I might add more but to no purpose. In a sense I must express myself, but always completely incomplete if that means anything. . . .
Williams seeming to work out a processual dialectic, improvisatory, provisional, raw. I think of E. M. Forster’s anecdotal lady who remarks “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?” in Aspects of the Novel (1927). And, too, Forster’s agreeably remarking on Gide’s Les Faux Monnayeurs, its—
. . . proposal that writers should mix themselves up in their material and be rolled over and over by it; they should not try to subdue any longer, they should hope to be subdued, to be carried away. As for a plot—to pot with the plot! Break it up, boil it down. Let there be those ‘formidable erosions of contour’ of which Nietzsche speaks. All that is prearranged is false.
(Shelley again: “I must trespass upon the forgiveness of my readers for the display of newspaper erudition to which I have been reduced.”)

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Thoreau / Williams / Aldo Buzzi

Aldo Buzzi, 1910–2009

Oh to be fleet and capacious and omnivorous like—and one pauses to random the brain’s pert inessential byways and furrows for some mythological beast not forthcoming, only to conclude, albeit reluctantly—like capital itself, voracious and consuming. To prehend invariably the multitudinous array, prehensile in the scrabblings, a mild indefatigable seizure in the gleanings, piling up unsortables in new and “uninstituted” ways. Institute: out of the Latin instituĕre to set up, in + statuĕre, see the Latin statūtum ordinance, see status, see station, see state. Long string of immovables. Henry David Thoreau, out of a Journal entry dated 19 August 1851:
      The way in which men cling to old institutions after the life has departed out of them & out of themselves reminds me of those monkies which cling by their tails—aye whose tails contract about the limbs—even the dead limbs of the forest and they hang suspended beyond the hunters reach long after they are dead   It is of no use to argue with such men   They have not an apprehensive intellect but merely as it were a prehensile tail. Their intellect possesses merely the quality of a prehensile tail. The tail itself contracts around the dead limb even after they themselves are dead–and not till corruption takes place do they fall.
      The poet must be continually watching the moods of his mind as the astronomer watches the aspects of the heavens. What might we not expect from a long life faithfully spent in this wise—the humblest observer would see some stars shoot.—A faithful description as by a disinterested person of the thoughts which visited a certain mind in 3 score years & 10 as when one reports the number & character of the vehicles which pass a particular point. As travellers go round the world and report natural objects & phenomena—so faithfully let another stay at home & report the phenomena of his own life. Catalogue stars—those thoughts whose orbits are as rarely calculated as comets   It matters not whether they visit my mind or yours—whether the meteor falls in my field or in yours—only that it comes from heaven. (I am not concerned to express that kind of truth which nature has expressed. Who knows but I may suggest some things to her. Time was when she was indebted to such suggestions from another quarter—as her present advancement shows. I deal with the truths that recommend themselves to me please me—not those merely which any system has voted to accept.) A meteorological journal of the mind—   You shall observe what occurs in your latitude, I in mine.
I love the sly cheekiness of a kind of self-appointed divinity in Thoreau’s “I may suggest some things” to nature, “Time was when she was indebted to such suggestions from another quarter.” Too, I think of Williams’s call—in Spring and All (1923)—for “the perfection of new forms as additions to nature.” Against “the falseness of attempting to ‘copy’ nature.” Little sense of any Williams’s history of reading Thoreau. I see a single (odd and rather unfathomable) reference in Williams’s Selected Letters. Writing to Robert Lowell about Lord Weary’s Castle (26 September 1947):
. . . it’s interesting to me that you have found a way to mention local place names without that jumping out of context which so often occurs to make a work false sounding. It’s very hard to treat of American things and name them specifically without a sense of bathos, of bad sentimental overlap resulting. Look at the John Brown thing. Look even at Thoreau. Something happens, something happened even to Henry Adams, even to Henry James when the United States was mentioned. It is very difficult and somewhat obscure what happens—but you have got by nicely I think. Maybe its because you anchored your data in ground common to Europe and to Christianity—if that has to be.
Williams, seemingly in the course of writing, succinctly (and sweetly) putting Lowell in the European camp (that is, a tradition antithetical to Williams’s own). Bathos in Thoreau? Place names in the 19 August 1851 entry: “PM   to Marlboro Road via Clamshell Hill—Jenny Dugan’s—Round Pond   Canoe Birch road (Dea Dakins) & White Pond.—” Isn’t bathos a predominantly literary failing? Odd that Williams’d fret that.

I commenced with the “fleet and capacious and omnivorous” thing because I’d just reread some of the gastronome and architect Aldo Buzzi’s marvelous Journey to the Land of the Flies and Other Travels (1996). Admired, particularly Buzzi’s unexpected and extravagant pile of gleanings here:
      In 367 B.C., with the tragedy The Ransom of Hector, performed in Athens, Dionysus won a literary prize and, like a good Sicilian, wished to celebrate the event with a banquet. I don’t know if, like his fellow citizen Charmos, he kept at hand, while he ate, verses of Homer and Euripides and proverbs to cite in relation to every dish that was placed before him; but as for the food, it is probable that he regulated himself according to the ancient equivalent of the Sicilian saying “There is always room for an unexpected mouthful.” As often happens with tyrants, he exaggerated. He died at table, where one can put off old age but not death. (Nor did his tragedy survive him; already judged mediocre by contemporaries, it confirms that even in antiquity literary prizes tended to be awarded to mediocre works.)
      Two very special dishes have, by force of circumstance, eluded me: stigghiole, seen only from a distance on a street in Messina (as I was passing in a car, with no possibility of stopping, I saw the unmistakable azure smoke); and scuma (foam), the finest spaghetti, thinner than angel hair, a specialty of Catania, the city of the great physicist Ettore Majorana, who let his hair grow very long, like a like a generous portion of scuma, in order not to waste time at the barber’s. As the young Stendhal did, too.
Making room for that casual appendage of “the young Stendhal.”

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Ian Hamilton Finlay / Novalis

Ian Hamilton Finlay, 1925-2006
(Photograph by Jonathan Williams)

Out of a letter dated 21 June 1967 found in Midway: Letters from Ian Hamilton Finlay to Stephen Bann, 1964-1969 (2014):
. . . I am puzzling, and agonising, about a sort of extension of the one-word poem idea . . Not the 2-word poem, exactly, but the fragment, on isolated phrase, which is somehow soaked in meaning, in an un-obvious way . . Such poems would be a sort of equivalent of those corners, in farmyards, or wherever, which seem inexplicably to ‘contain’ some elusive meaning, in the form a few nettles, a shadow, and an old sack . . . The ‘fragment’ has obvious affinities with the concrete poem, in that both are ‘self-sufficient’ and ‘unexplained’. But one cannot have the fragmentary fragment, unless one does what my new friend, Prof. Guy Davenport, did in his Archilochos and Sappho translations—simply allow the historical fact of fragmentation to forgive what would be impermissible in a contemporary poem . . I am always convinced that one has poems without number inside one, and that the real problem is always to find the form which will allow them to exist. This is why I have sometimes toyed with the idea of pseudo-translation (just as various people seem to have assumed that Archilochos was Guy Davenport’s invention, which he of course was not). But such a solution is unsatisfactory, and I suppose I must content myself with the odd fragment that is not fragmentary, while rejecting the ones which seem as full of ‘content’ but don’t fulfil the other obligations of the contemp. poem. By the way, did I ever send you one my favourite one-worders—which I am having (I hope) done on a stone:

The Water’s Breast And


The Boat’s
inseperable ripples

(which is a 2-worder)

or (a great favourite)


which is the germ of a whole new method, if I could see it.
Ian Hamilton Finlay’s first one-word poems appeared in the final issue of Poor. Old. Tired. Horse. (No. 25) in 1967. Some of Finlay’s one-word poems—out of the Alec Finlay-edited Ian Hamilton Finlay: Selections (2012):
The Cloud’s Anchor


The Boat’s Blueprint

And the lovely late entry (1999):
A Last Word

Pertinent to the marvelous “corners . . . seem inexplicably to ‘contain’ some elusive meaning”—Finlay’s 1999 note called “Romanticizing,” reworking the Novalis fragment that begins “Die Welt muß romantisirt werden”:
The world must be romanticized. Only thus will we rediscover its original meaning . . . If I give a higher meaning to the everyday, a mysterious aspect to the ordinary, the dignity of the unfamiliar to the familiar, the nom de plume Novalis to the name Friedrich von Hardenberg, then I am romanticizing it.
And, too, some lines out of Finlay’s “Camouflage Sentences”: “Realism is a style which purports to be, and is at first often taken to be, without camouflage.” And: “Every style in art is a camouflage through which, by our own reconstruction, we think we see ‘real’ nature.”