Continuum

In talking about poetry with people, inevitably I hear, “I don’t get it.” For sure, poetry can be resistant to immediate interpretation, but isn’t this true of all art? T. S. Eliot once wrote, “If I understand a play the very first time, then I know that it isn’t a very good play.” Is this because art is elitist? No, but understanding cannot be bought with a credit card; it must be purchased with hard work. And haven’t we all performed activities with our bodies that demonstrated the presence (and ache) of heretofore unknown muscles? Such is the case with engaging art; it utilizes portions of one’s being that maybe were not known to exist: especially the often atrophied muscles of imagination. But I digress, for this article is about one specific artist, poet Kay Ryan—the current poet laureate—and her book Elephant Rocks, and the one simple reason why her poetry should entreat a first then closer look—it is fun.

Immanuel Kant speaks about the nature of play in art; how true it is, as long as we do not consider it the exclusive aim. What drew me to Milton was his playful combining of Greek and Christian mythologies; to T. S. Eliot his playful, modern often shocking metaphors of life, love and nature; to Gerard Manley Hopkins the playfulness of his near dancing rhythms. Kay Ryan plays, too; consider this verse:

Bestiary

A bestiary catalogs
bests. The mediocres
both higher and lower
are suppressed in favor
of the singularly savage
or clever, the spectacularly
pincered, the archest
of the arch deceivers
who press their advantage
without quarter even after
they’ve won as of course they would.
Best is not to be confused with good—
a different creature altogether,
and treated of in the goodiary—
a text alas lost now for centuries.[1]

It isn’t until the second to last line that one realizes they might have mispronounced the title. What else was missed? And it begs a second reading. Of course, as one reads it again, maybe the distinction between best and good becomes a bit more apparent. Plainly, Ryan suggests that the good are not frequently categorized or chosen as the best. I think of the naturalist with his species and genus; I consider the phrase, “only the strongest survive”, and I wonder as to its veracity. I ask do I want to be good or a beast (may be the title wasn’t mispronounced after all)? The playfulness of the poem belies a weighty set of questions.

Throughout the book, Ryan looks at the very ordinary and guides us through its enchanted landscapes to find both elations and revelations.

A Plain Ordinary Steel Needle Can Float on Pure Water

Who hasn’t seen
a plain ordinary
steel needle float serene
on water as if lying on a pillow?
The water cuddles up like Jell-O.
It’s a treat to see water
so rubbery, a needle
so peaceful, the point encased
in the tenderest dimple.
It seems so simple
when things or people
have modified each other’s qualities
somewhat
we almost forget the oddity
of that.[2]

The fun of her rhymes (Jell-O and pillow), off-beat word choices (cuddle sounds so much like puddle), and misplaced adjectives (rubbery water and peaceful, tenderest needles) all contribute to a sense of play and the pure charm found in this witnessed oddity. She sees like a child something of wonder that must be passed on, and even if that sense of surprise at seeing the unexpected is all that the reader derives, is it not a worthwhile poem? But everything in this poem is precise including the delivery of its fine point; the language changes here, becomes more terse—more plain—and resonates cleanly at the pricking end of the needle.

Not every poem in the book is a treasure, but they are all at least fun (read them aloud, the sounds are great). This is part of the work, though—sifting to find the genuine nuggets. Of the 60 or so poems, I marked 22 of them as “something special”. Honestly, this is a good number of poems in a single volume for me to enjoy; when I closed the end board of the book I found my self quite pleased and fully inspired. I encourage you all to pick it up and have fun, but don’t always expect to “get it” the very first time.

[2] Ibid, 73.

This year for Christmas, the Continuum and its artists gave gift boxes to young artists, twelve to eighteen years old that demonstrate a passion and persistence in art of some kind. This year’s recipients, Cassie Cole (painter), Alex Porter (painter) and Hannah Tyson (illustrator and story teller) each received gift boxes in order to encourage them to continue and inspire them beyond what they’ve already accomplished.

The contents of each gift box included not supplies, but books, movies and music to inspire their future and broaden their perspective of what is possible in artistic media. I for one drew incessantly growing up, worked in pastels and charcoal and painted only to later find that poetry was my forte. Exposure is the key word in describing these gifts—exposure to good, creative and broadly categorized arts so that each might understand that imagination is what truly defines the artist; this so that they might not lose interest but engage the artistic endeavor as a lifelong pursuit.

The inspiration, too, will come from seeing art that is not widely taught in school. The greats are truly great and though Caravaggio and Turner have in some way marked my own maturation and my sense of aesthetic, there is art happening today that will and should inform their own. It does not assume what is happening today is superior but nonetheless required to a complete education—extending the artistic tradition. These artists deal in subject, media and concepts that push boundaries; not for the sake of doing so, but in interesting ways demonstrating that beauty can be found in all things, even thrown ink and water, as is the case with photographer Shinichi Maruyama.

It is the Continuum’s hope that these gift boxes will bring encouragement to these young artists. Too often, the world about them—parents, teachers, ministers, peers and the endless influence of media—suggest that art is superfluous; that art is decoration and decadent, and certainly, it is not as essential as science and engineering or business administration or preaching in contribution and should therefore be simply a hobby if there happens to be enough time. There aren’t many voices suggesting otherwise, but the Continuum understands the value of mentorship—the older embracing the younger to impart passion along with knowledge and skill, and wishes to use these gift boxes to establish that type of relationship, and to impart the immeasurable value of things like Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue.

Each box was uniquely assembled. The contents from one to the next nevertheless are consistent enough that an example of one gives a good picture of them all. Inside a wooden plein air painter’s box with trays and compartments for their own supplies are the Nihonga painter Makoto Fujimura’s New York Works, photographer Shinichi Maruyama’s Kusho, poet laureates Kay Ryan’s Elephant Rocks and Richard Wilbur’s Things of this World, jazz artist Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue and director Hayao Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke. Lastly and significantly, each box receives a personal letter to the artist.

We wish to broaden this project to include other young artists and are already considering ways to improve it possibly even by means of a young artist night where each artist is able to display and talk about their work at a Continuum event. We in the Continuum know that it will be young artists like these that will define culture in the years to come; we want to play a role in shaping it through them and others like them. We wish Cassie, Alex and Hannah good luck as they continue to engage their imagination and creative talents.