Anyway, an Irish poet by the name of William Butler Yeats wrote a poem called The Circus Animals’ Desertion. Many critics and scholars have attempted to decipher the poem, and I have read at least a dozen of those cracks at interpretation. See an earlier blog to know how I feel that poems are NOT to be interpreted. I have always felt that I knew what Yeats meant, and I become even more confident as I get older that I am sure about his meaning. If I am applying a meaning to his poem that is different from his, then I am interpreting, and I may provide an entertaining explanation, but I know that I am wrong.
You see, Yeats begins the poem by expressing how he is struggling with “themes” about which to write. He realizes that he is a “broken man.” He feels less than what he was as a young poet, but his heart is still the same as when he tamed the “circus animals” that made him a productive, maybe famous, poet. Therefore, he can only “enumerate old themes” or, essentially, go back to those ideas that he had written about before and re-explore them. He tells readers how he feels about addressing Oisin, Countess Cathleen, and Cuchalain again, but I don’t have to explain that. You can read it. Finally, in the third stanza, he confesses where the “masterful images” of the “pure mind” happened to be found—in the trash in the “sweepings of the street.” This garbage is not the inspiration of the muse so often idealized by versifiers, but it is old ideas kept in a “till,” a place where valuable items are kept, by a “raving slut.” As an old poet, he finds the best thing to do is to lie in the refuse of his younger self because it is among this garbage that he rediscovers his heart where all the inspiration started.
To put it simply, Yeats and I—and I believe that Wordsworth and Coleridge would agree—think the mature poet and person is more likely to find inspiration in reflection upon one’s past and ideas and actions from one’s youth than in exterior motivations. Mature persons, with imagination, need no muse. They can inspire themselves, maybe even, must inspire themselves.
So, I have shown my gentle readers some poetry that I wrote years ago. Here is some commentary that I made about my poetry in 1999. Please note the pleas to the muse of inspiration with whom I had no bargain as a young man. Enjoy!
The Commentary and Criticism of My Own Creation
Inspiration is a flying creature that does not often light when and where the helplessly inspired would wish it to do so. Last summer, I composed profusely during the three months of “summer” and ended up with some rather interesting poems. The summer of 1999 is not living up to its predecessor in the flowering of inspiration for various reasons, none of which I can hold under my finger and blame for my lack of writing. However, though I may lack the creativity to produce, I am ever willing to be a critic and a commentator (possibly a teacher if one takes the proper view?). Pope, in The Essay on Criticism, said something about those who, when unable to be poets themselves, are the first to criticize poetry. Well, I must confess that I am one of those dullards whose meager attempts at poetry fail more often than they succeed, but who is nonetheless willing to explore the possibility of explaining good poetry anyway.
Having contemplated the various directions from which I might approach the subject of poesy as a critic or commentator, I decided that a proper first wetting of the feet might be with my own poetry. In truth, I have been writing about poetry in my comments on my own poems for years, but this process was never a concerted effort. Don’t expect an orchestra here either. My poems are written in a frenzied state and my opinions on poetry are also rather electric.
Some of the problems in working with one’s own poems is that one will tend to be too lenient or too harsh with his remarks. More often than not, I am too critical of something that has a good technical basis and less demanding of a particular piece that was a good emotional release. In this particular piece of writing, I will try my best to avoid letting either side gain control. I will not say whether I like a poem or not, realizing beforehand that preferences will be obvious.
Another problem is contextual. I know when, why, and where a particular poem happened. Though I choose to call this a commentary, I would rather it not become an autobiography. I would hate to bore someone to tears. Besides, most of what I can remember is a lie created by my mind to excuse myself of various faults and shortcomings.
Finally, I would like to note that I am always going to yield to whatever particular comments I made at the time of the poem’s initial writing or the comments written shortly after and will continue from that point. Sometimes, these comments are as vibrant and imaginative as the poems. They are also more autobiographical than I care to try and be now. I hope that this experience will be enjoyable for you and me. And I hope that this will gather the attention of the Muse!!! Where are you?
The picture is one that I took on my walk today. See if you can guess what it is. Let me know what you think.
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