A Defence of Poetry

Although Shelley's "A Defence of Poetry" has been moved to the end of the term, I've decided to post on the piece. As Gina said in class, Shelley's is not the only defence of poetry. It does, however, seem to be the most popular, or perhaps, it might merely be the most available. One such defence is from Sir Phillip Sydney. The following information is from the site:


"Sidney's famous essay is said to be a response to an attack on poetry and stage plays, which had been dedicated to him without his permission, by Stephen Gosson, a former playwright: The Schoole of Abuse, 1579. Another reply, inferior but interesting, had been published by Thomas Lodge in 1580."

The following is an abstract of Kate Mcdonald's essay:

"Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) was inspired to write his most famous work of prose, A Defense of Poetry, by the inflammatory work of a friend, Thomas Love Peacock. Peacock's treatise, entitled Four Ages of Poetry (1820), criticized contemporary poetry and incited Shelley to write his passionate Defense in the early spring of 1821. Despite the debate, the two authors remained friends and Shelly sent Peacock manuscripts of the essay upon its completion. Later, after Shelly's death in 1822, Peacock was to send these to publisher John Hunt. Hunt's edited version of A Defense of Poetry eliminated all references to Peacock's Four Ages and was never published. In 1840, 1845, 1847, and 1852 Mary Shelley printed her own editions of Defense, each one absent of allusions to Peacock. Eventually, as more manuscripts were discovered, some of these references were readmitted into the treatise and Peacock's influence again became apparent. The close connection between Defense and Four Ages is significant because in Defense, Shelley argues that all literature derives from the same creative human source and that, because poetry is a part of this vital encompassing web, it represents an integral part of human nature."

The Instrument

By: Les Murry

Who reads poetry? Not our intellectuals:

they want to control it. Not lovers, not the

combative,

nor examinees. They too skim it for bouquets

and magic trump cards. Not poor schoolkids

furtively farting as they get immunized against it.

Poetry is read by the lovers of poetry

and heard by some more they coax to the cafe

or the district library for a bifocal reading.

Lovers of poetry may total a million people

on the whole planet. Fewer than the players of

skat.

What gives them delight is a never-murderous

skim

distilled, to verse mainly, and suspended in rapt

calm on the surface of paper. The rest of poetry

to which this was once integral still rules

the continents, as it always did. But on condition

now

that its true name is never spoken. This, feral

poetry,

the opposite but also the secret of the rational,

who reads that? Ah, the lovers, the schoolkids,

debaters, generals, crime-lords, everybody reads

it:

Porsche, lift-off, Gaia, Cool, patriarchy.

Among the feral stanzas are many that demand

your flesh

to embody themselves. Only completed art

free of obedience to its time can pirouette you

through and athwart the larger poems you are in.

Being outside all poetry is an unreachable void.

Why write poetry? For the weird unemployment.

For the painless headaches, that must be tapped to

strike

down along your writing arm at the accumulated

moment.

For the adjustments after, aligning facets in a verb

before the trance leaves you. For working always

beyond

your own intelligence. For not needing to rise

and betray the poor to do it. For a non-devouring

fame.

Little in politics resembles it: perhaps

the Australian colonists’ re-inventing of the snide

far-adopted secret ballot, in which deflation could

hide

and, as a welfare bringer, shame the mass-grave

Revolutions,

so axe-edged, so lictor-y.

Was that moral cowardice’s one shining world

victory?

Breathing in dream-rhythm when awake and far

from bed

evinces the gift. Being tragic with a book on your

head.

[Conscious and Verbal, 1999]