There is something annoying about
‘footnote’ poets: Eliot, Pound, Yeats; that is, Modernism packed with obscure references.
I recently read Yeats's 1919. To view the poem in a ‘classical’
way, in which a poem is strong if its vision is concentrated, economical and thematically and visually unified, then it’s a piss-poor poem. 1919 covers the ‘Black and Tan’ years following the end of World
War I; Yeats chooses to drop in diffusely references to Herodotus and the
Persians’ burning of the Acropolis with fin-de-siècle dancers with Plato and
fourteenth-century shape-shifters. The overall first impression I’m left with is
exactly the same as that drawn from a conversation with a drunk – senseless
lurching.
But 1919 is a powerful poem. Its imagery is rich, even if so diffuse that it stretches our powers of analogy. What we're dealing with is a different type of
poetry which requires a different rubric.
A man in his own secret
meditation
Is lost amid the labyrinth he has
made
In art or politics.