Vertigo on Mt. Parnassus

It was there, right in the front page of the society section. Lillian Highbrowski, noted American poet and author of 38 volumes, talking about Frank, her ‘third and best husband,’ the state of contemporary poetry, and her appearance at Parnassus University for a weekend workshop and lecture on the ‘Expanded Canon of American Poetry.’ Here it was--that ‘window’ the astronauts talk about, the one in a million chance, like that ‘62 game of eight ball I got to play with Minnesota Fats back in Pittsburgh. Sure, it didn’t lead to anything; I was only sixteen, too young yet to know my game. Now I can see it was the poetry really, even back then--the craving for the corner pocket, the sad destiny of the bank shot. I didn’t even care where the ball went; it was just the glory in the sound of the sharp ceramic clicks. But this poetry thing, this was serious, I could tell. The pool was just sex--that old two-way ticket. But this word thing was like holding hands, even when there was no one there. I called the Texaco and told them I was too sick to come in on the weekend, then I called the University and got directions. I was going to the well to drink of the same water.

I arrived a little early on Saturday, found an aisle seat in the amphitheater and sat, expectant. All day images had chased through my mind like children: ‘A heaven of safe trout,’ ‘The hallowed trunks of elephants,’ ‘Quiet as boulders between cigarettes.’ I was ready to soar in my new craft. Finally she arrived, was ushered in, introduced, rose to the podium, and began to speak like it was all familiar territory. She was small, assured, and to the point. “I’m going to talk today on ethno-poetics and the neo-conservative movement as it relates to the expanded canon of American poetry.” I felt a small dis-ease begin to conceive somewhere below my stomach.

“Poetry exists now only in the classroom and university, and that is the best place to conserve it. We are not old romantics anymore, I hope. We’re lovers of literature, intellectuals, writers. Let’s not be hypocrites. Let’s define our terms accurately and move to where we need to go within those boundaries.”

Something was wrong. My heart speeded up. I wanted to raise my hand. She had to know about the Texaco and Arnie’s Billiards. It was there, too; not just the university. But I didn’t do it, not there in the amphitheater. What if there was a small furry hypocrite hidden inside me that hadn’t defined its terms? Fear quietly advanced its foothold on me.

I briefly relaxed as she said, “I want poetry that takes risks, breaks new ground.” But then added, “Not that old-fashioned dark vision, one that we are all familiar with, which does not move ahead as the 20th century demands.” Now I was confused, like a wild animal just released from captivity, but into another steel cage. How could I risk, break new ground with a whole hundred years demanding its due?

And then it happened, without any real hint or warning.

"I want you to imagine a diagram,” she said, “In the shape of a T with the liberals on the left and the conservatives on the right.”

There I was, defenseless. It was awful. There were no windows that damn diagram could get out of. It just kept hovering around and careening off the walls back into my mind. Then it got worse and spread like a cancer, picking up ‘ethnopoetic,’ ‘cultural archetype,’ ‘mythic interpretation,’ and ‘neo-romantic context,’ like dirty lint. Where was the heaven of safe trout, the death like gold ice?

My earlier dis-ease had become a quiet panic, my desire to soar a need to breathe. I had to open a door, get to a window, but a sad paralysis had taken hold. I couldn’t move. Unfortunately she did, to another subject, her opinion of poets.

“I have never cared for Rita Dove. Her work does not expand the canon of good poetry at all.” Then, “Gluck is a poet I have long disliked; all that neo-gothic romance and the allusions to the mysterious, the unknowable. A backward-looking 19th century desire for an innocent and natural world.” And, “Jeffery Harrison’s work is immature... ( the 20th century’s demands weren’t enough; now I had to struggle under the weight of a larger infirmity: the mature personality ) ... and written in those three-line stanzas suggestive of people who don’t know anything about metrics, but want you to think they do.” On to James Merrill whom she mercifully just ‘hated.’ “The rich should not write at all or write only great poems.” Finally, “Sue Chang is just not a good poet.”

The ‘expanded canon’ had contracted, exploded. I heard a woman behind me say in a tone of subdued respect, “She sure doesn’t pull any punches.” The same sentiment, I thought, shared by Genghis Kahn’s men in the mess hall.

She finally concluded her talk and retired to an adjacent room where she entertained an informal aftermath. I remained in my chair, thinking of bank shots, ceramic clicks, and corner pockets, letting my sad aftermath pass through me. Maybe it’s not all like this, I thought, as I went down for refreshments.

On the way to the punch bowl, I overheard Ms.Highbrowski’s voice trail off to two attentive undergraduates, “The experimentalists are just trying to avoid the personal ness of voice.”
I drank my punch quickly and decided to take the cookies outside before she passed judgment on them: “...Improperly baked by 20th century standards...”

On my way out, someone asked me if I was going to take my poems to her afternoon workshop. “No, I don’t think it’s a safe place for trout,” I said ( Maybe six months public service cleaning the tragic apartments of fetal poets aborted in the first semester would soften her ).

Well, it’s still not too late, I thought. At least I can still go back to the Texaco on Sunday. I got in my car and drove off, looking for an empty Catholic church. I found one, got out, and went in. I lit two candles. One for my sins and one for Ms. Highbrowski’s first two husbands. Then I returned to my car and headed downtown. There must be a pool hall open somewhere, I thought.