In this morning’s New York Times, Dwight Garner reviewed a pair of recent books concerning James Laughlin: a biography by Ian S. MacNiven, and a mammoth volume, edited by Peter Glassgold, of Laughlin’s Collected Poems.
Laughlin, you’ll remember, was the founder of New Directions Books. Ezra Pound, who’d been approached by a young Laughlin for artistic guidance, snorted that Laughlin would never be much of a poet, but that he should mobilize his real gift (vast inherited wealth) to do something more useful—namely, publishing the books of Ezra Pound.
The Laughlin family was in the steel business, a big enough deal to earn Woody Guthrie’s ire in his 1941 “Pittsburgh Town:”
Laughlin, you’ll remember, was the founder of New Directions Books. Ezra Pound, who’d been approached by a young Laughlin for artistic guidance, snorted that Laughlin would never be much of a poet, but that he should mobilize his real gift (vast inherited wealth) to do something more useful—namely, publishing the books of Ezra Pound.
The Laughlin family was in the steel business, a big enough deal to earn Woody Guthrie’s ire in his 1941 “Pittsburgh Town:”
Well, what did Jones & Laughlin steal? Pittsburgh.
Well, what did Jones & Laughlin steal? Pittsburgh.
Well, what did Jones & Laughlin steal
Up and down the river just as far as you can see
In Pittsburgh? Lord God, Pittsburgh.
Young James Laughlin, cowed by Pound’s dismissal of his poetic talent, did in fact follow Pound’s suggestion to found a publishing company, the landmark New Directions Books that brought Nabokov, Borges and Miller to American readers. So, no small accomplishment.
I had known this story, but I never knew the sequel. It wasn’t until I was browsing the shelves at the bookstore and saw his Collected Poems that I discovered that Laughlin had ever tried poetry again.
It didn’t take long, however, for me to discover that Laughlin is a remarkable lyric poet, and that this volume would become indispensable to me.
Take, for instance, “La Vita Nuova”:
I had known this story, but I never knew the sequel. It wasn’t until I was browsing the shelves at the bookstore and saw his Collected Poems that I discovered that Laughlin had ever tried poetry again.
It didn’t take long, however, for me to discover that Laughlin is a remarkable lyric poet, and that this volume would become indispensable to me.
Take, for instance, “La Vita Nuova”:
Thanks to my Virtual-Reality headset
I can now embrace her back at the same
time as her front.
Love expands; it was never like this
In the days of Catullus.
These few lines have everything: concision, clarity, relaxed musicality, wonder, restraint, and an unforced interplay between the commonplace and historical / literary. A Virtual-Reality headset (of all things) is taken seriously, on its own terms. I’m not sure it gets much better than that.
The Collected Poems is positively studded with gems like this.
It was disorienting, therefore, to read Dwight Garner’s verdict in the New York Times:
The Collected Poems is positively studded with gems like this.
It was disorienting, therefore, to read Dwight Garner’s verdict in the New York Times:
“The Collected Poems of James Laughlin” comprises some 1,250 of his poems, of which perhaps 8.2 are keepers. They are best read, as Peter Glassgold, the former editor in chief of New Directions, writes in his very good introduction, as Laughlin’s intellectual biography.
There is free verse about his youth in Pittsburgh, about skiing, about New York City and about friends like Kenneth Rexroth and Delmore Schwartz. Several verge on being funny.
After one of his books of poems was harshly reviewed in The New York Times, Laughlin wrote a poem called “My Favorite Newspaper.” It suggests that instead of being assigned to a literary critic, his book was sent to “the expert on cholesterol-free salad dressings.”
Many of the works here are love poems of a candied, gruesome, sub-Rod McKuen sort. Laughlin’s charm sits down with smarm. “I want to touch you/in beautiful places” is a standard opening line, as is “I’m sorry for all the girls/who are not perfect like you.” One of these has a perfect title: “The Love Puddle.”
This disconnect gets me thinking about Pound, who committed that staggering pedagogical malpractice against Laughlin, the young, eager, vulnerable poet who idolized il miglior fabbro (“the better craftsman”, as Eliot dubbed him).
Maybe Pound has the intellectual authority here, and he and the NYT’s Garner are on the right track. Pound’s poetry produces that rich aroma of myth, gravity, permanence that bespeak authority and reflect his vast intellectual endowment. His prominence in twentieth century poetry is unmistakeable—the gatekeeper of taste responsible for bringing many superb poets (like Eliot himself) into print.
But ultimately, essentially, when the professors are out of earshot, when you’re being as honest with yourself as you are when judging a meal you’ve just eaten (i.e., “Was that very expensive cheese ‘complexly tart’—as advertised—, or simply foul?”), can one avoid the suggestion that Pound was more a psychiatric case study than an artist? Can one avoid the internal voice whispering that the decisive majority of Pound’s oeuvre is a stratospherically high-brow heap of nonsense, bluff and bullshit?
It takes the occasional discovery of a James Laughlin to remind me of the value of a poet who speaks to me, rather than in my general vicinity. I’d like to be able to give the young Laughlin a handshake, or a hug, and encourage him to keep at it.
Maybe Pound has the intellectual authority here, and he and the NYT’s Garner are on the right track. Pound’s poetry produces that rich aroma of myth, gravity, permanence that bespeak authority and reflect his vast intellectual endowment. His prominence in twentieth century poetry is unmistakeable—the gatekeeper of taste responsible for bringing many superb poets (like Eliot himself) into print.
But ultimately, essentially, when the professors are out of earshot, when you’re being as honest with yourself as you are when judging a meal you’ve just eaten (i.e., “Was that very expensive cheese ‘complexly tart’—as advertised—, or simply foul?”), can one avoid the suggestion that Pound was more a psychiatric case study than an artist? Can one avoid the internal voice whispering that the decisive majority of Pound’s oeuvre is a stratospherically high-brow heap of nonsense, bluff and bullshit?
It takes the occasional discovery of a James Laughlin to remind me of the value of a poet who speaks to me, rather than in my general vicinity. I’d like to be able to give the young Laughlin a handshake, or a hug, and encourage him to keep at it.
RSS Feed
