Are you better off than you were four years ago? This is, for better or worse, the fundamental question of American politics. It is a trick question. In The Golden Age of Paraphernalia, Canadian-American poet Kevin Davies observes that the average answer would be about the same if the number of years was replaced with eighty or, for that matter, 13,000:
Yesterday? I stayed in out of the heat, washed dishes
Read a book
Remembered a cow
That as an ignorant boy with a board I walloped
For breaking into our yard
Eyes first puzzled then pissed off
Bellowing near my asparagus patch
Or was that later
After the big cedar fell and destroyed the fence
Or possibly when we mutinied, refusing to follow
Alexander farther into the subcontinent
Just wanting to go back to whatever inevitably temporary homes
With the baubles we’d collected and our blistered skins
Eat an entire sheep with a group of cousins
Maybe build a hut
Imperceptibly alter a grammar
Stand in the midst of barley
In Alexander’s army, no doubt, there were Macedonians given to specifying the quantity of sheep eaten at a feast. There may even have been some given to introspection and malingering. I vouch that none practiced diachronic linguistics. It is a joke, and one dry enough that if a comedian were to tell it, critics would say it passes for poetry. When a poet is dry, though, it’s news.
The occupational hazard of working in metaphor is that nothing can ever simply be itself. Even poets’ definitions of their function in society take the form of sullen comparisons. Percy Shelley saw poets as “unacknowledged legislators,” and T.S. Eliot remarked that “the poet aspires to the condition of the music-hall comedian.” Though Davies will likely be appalled to hear it, he often achieves both bogies, writing poems that one can easily imagine being declaimed by John Cleese or Al Franken.
Since the decline of patronage and the rise of the English department, high-minded poets from Ezra Pound and Charles Olson on through the Language poets have spent much of the energy they might otherwise have devoted to vocables and sense to writing essays of noisy, semicomprehensible worry–about poetry’s place in society, society’s place in poetry, poetry’s place in poetry. Davies’s poetry is mercifully free of that kind of self-regard, which it has replaced with an even better, more archaic form of self-regard: alienation and self-loathing. This is actually a promising development. For all its proclaimed devotion to negativity, the poetic avant-garde has until now had no curmudgeon with the charm or persistence of a Philip Larkin or Dorothy Parker.
In the twilight of what our major critics agree is “the Age of Ashbery,” genial surrealism has gradually replaced grand mania as the period style (a shift that tracks the change in Ashbery’s manner over his past seven books). I’m not saying it’s easy to make funny poems. For starters, the jokes have to be funny. Then, too, the poems have to be good. Often poets take this second condition to mean that the jokes must turn out sad. More often, they take both rules as guidelines. It doesn’t have to be that way. There are poets (Ron Padgett, Paul Muldoon and Alice Notley come to mind) who routinely succeed on both counts when they choose to. Frederick Seidel would be the funniest living poet if his jokes didn’t entail bodily harm. August Kleinzahler would be the funniest living poet if he were funny. Some poets are humorous, if not quite funny, while others have the opposite problem. For his part, Davies is glumly oblivious to the issue.