Geoffrey
Brocks first book of poems, Weighing
Light, appeared in 2005. His work appears in journals including Poetry, Paris Review, PN Review, New England Review,
and Hudson Review, and he has received
fellowships for his poetry from the National Endowment for the Arts, The American
Antiquarian Society, the Arizona Commission on the Arts, and the Florida Arts Council. He
was a Wallace Stegner Fellow in poetry from 2002-2004.
He is also the translator of several books from the Italian: Cesare Paveses Disaffections:
Complete Poems 1930-1950, Roberto Calassos K., Umberto Ecos The
Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, and a new novel about the Armenian
genocide, Skylark Farm,
by Antonia Arslan. His translations have received the John Frederick Nims Memorial Prize
from Poetry, the Raiziss/de Palchi Fellowship
from the Academy of American Poets, the ATAs Lewis Galantière Award, the PEN Center
USA Translation Award, the MLAs Lois Roth Award, and the Italian Ministry of Foreign
Affairs Translation Prize.
He is currently working on his second manuscript of poems (tentatively titled Voices Bright Flags) and, with the support of a
Guggenheim Fellowship, compiling a bilingual anthology of 20th-century Italian poetry,
which will be published by Farrar Straus & Giroux. He teaches in the Programs in
Creative Writing and Translation at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, where he
lives with his wife, the writer Padma Viswanathan, and their son, Ravi.
Statement of Poetics
Im a little suspicious of artes poeticae,
at least prose ones, because I find (and hope to continue finding) that my view of what
poetry can and should be changes depending on what Im reading and whats
happening to me and in the world around me. So I offer the following as some provisional
jottings from the fall of 2006, rather than as a statement of poetics.
In general, I favor poetry that offers some combination of surface clarity and emotional
or conceptual or tonal complexity. Such poems as Roethkes My Papas
Waltz, Haydens Those Winter Sundays, Stevens Idea of
Order, Bishops One Art, Justices Heart,
Hechts A Hill, and many Dickinson poems are all touchstones for me in
this regard.
Some qualities that I think are generally undervalued in contemporary poetry: humor,
seriousness, clarity, memorability. Perhaps the most overrated quality of contemporary
poetry is that sort of obscurity or opacity that masquerades as difficulty or profundity;
its usually the refuge of writers who dont have much to say but want to be
thought clever. This sort of difficulty is all too easy; the kind of simplicity that
characterizes the poems mentioned in the previous paragraph is whats hard.
On the whole I prefer short, elegant lyrics like those mentioned aboveperhaps
because I have a short attention span. But I also love certain messier, sprawling things,
such as Song of Myself or Mercian
Hymns or Autobiography of Red or Fredy Neptune.
There are some things I love when theyre done well and loathe when theyre done
poorly. I love metrical poetry when the meter is supple, as it almost always is in the
work of Dickinson, Yeats, Frost, Robinson, Stevens, Wilbur, Justice, Hecht, Hayden,
Brooks, Hill, Bishop, Merrill, and others. I love good rhymes, particularly good slant
rhymes, particularly good pararhymes (moon-moan, gold-beguiled, etc.) and good
feminine consonantal rhymes (e.g., Justices marvelous cluster of common-human-omen-woman,
Brooks taffy-coffee, sorry-prairie, etc.). But I cant bear
paint-by-numbers formalism, where every stress and every rhyme is in place but the poem
lies lifeless on the page like Frankensteins monster before the lightning strikes.
Id rather read the worst free verse.
Pet peeve: the foolish and fallacious perception that so-called formal poetics
is in some way linked with conservative politics (which is as senseless as the association
of experimental poetics with progressive politics). This perception does as
much harm to the current and future prospects of formal poetry as anything I can think of.
More pet peeves: terms like formal and experimental and free
verse. How glaringly inadequate they are!
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