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A Wild Ride Through America

Selected Poems

by Robert Pinsky
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 209 pp., $26.00


Robert Pinsky’s Selected Poems surveys an extraordinary career in poetry, now nearly forty years in the making. Pinsky is a “public poet,” as everyone always says. And yet his poems, in meeting American mass culture halfway, often seem to refuse to take even one step further. American poetry, as he wrote in his superb, Tocquevillean short book Democracy, Culture and the Voice of Poetry, must both engage and resist the “Sandburgesque giant of a society that is at once dazzling and banal, provincial and global, menacing and hopeful”:

Barry Chin/The Boston Globe/Getty Images
Robert Pinsky lecturing at Boston University, 2001
Poetry’s voice participates in that society and its culture, but by its nature also resists them: singular where they are plural, memory-driven where they are heedless, personal where they are impersonal—luxuriously slow where they are rushed, and thrillingly swift where they are plodding.

Pinsky could be describing, here, his own poems, which shuttle rapidly between the personal and the public, blurring the line between them; which show how individuals often embody successive generations of ancestor-ghosts; and which, archiving a broad range of facts from American cultural life, thereby hold off, for their short intervals, the amnesia that seems integral to progress.

Pinsky is either American culture’s wariest contemporary celebrator or its warmest, most compassionate skeptic. The poems he writes often feel like targeted raids on mass culture, followed by risky escapes. Poets spend their whole lives around TV, just like ordinary mortals; but it took fifty years before (to my knowledge) a poet thought to acknowledge it in an ode. These lines are from Pinsky’s “To Television”:

Your patron in the pantheon would be Hermes
Raster dance,
Quick one, little thief, escort
Of the dying and comfort of the sick,
In a blue glow my father and little sister sat
Snuggled in one chair watching you
Their wife and mother was sick in the head
I scorned you and them as I scorned so much
Now I like you best in a hotel room,
Maybe minutes
Before I have to face an audience: behind
The doors of the armoire, box
Within a box—Tom & Jerry, or also brilliant
And reassuring, Oprah Winfrey.

That “scorn”—quickly sketched, quickly erased—is a classic American story, condensed: the high-culture recruit from the Fifties middle class (Pinsky’s father was an optician; the family lived in Long Branch, New Jersey) whose sense of literature gradually widens to reincorporate all those experiences it earlier rejected. Many of Pinsky’s poems return to this sort of childhood environment, now reframed formally in terms of art and emotionally in terms of remorse: and now, therefore, hospitable.

This vision of TV suggests a republic of the halt, the lame, the poor, the jittery, and the bored, a republic we all join at one time or another. TV watchers are like bees, each one consigned to his separate chamber as part of the overall design of common experience. Or perhaps like poets: poetry being the genre that conscripts us into its public precisely by sharpening our sensation of being private. Pinsky is a great poet of just this sort of synchronized privacy, as well as of the inevitability of common culture, its uncanny return in our most intimate environments (living rooms, bedrooms) and actions (loving, grieving—or, indeed, writing poems). Because this inevitability is only measurable when it pops up in private life, we find in Pinsky moments of enormous personal import—the father and sister on the couch—alongside miscellania: Tom and Jerry, Oprah Winfrey.

These seeming incongruities make reading him sometimes a wild ride. The precise logic that binds Hermes (who, according to the Greeks, built the first lyre from the shell of an unlucky tortoise) to Oprah Winfrey didn’t exist until Pinsky created this specialized device, the poem itself, for detecting it. By the end of the poem, the focus has shifted to poetry itself, another “box within a box” whose own superpowers rival even those of TV:

Thank you, for I watched, I watched
Sid Caesar speaking French and Japanese not
Through knowledge but imagination,
His quickness, and Thank you, I watched live
Jackie Robinson stealing
Home, the image—O strung shell—enduring
Fleeter than light like these words we
Remember in: they too are winged
At the helmet and ankles.

The “strung shell” of the lyre makes these feats of association possible within language, “winged/At the helmet and ankles.” Pinsky’s poems often read like complex studies of a single word in all its aspects. Here, that word is “home”: its comforting sense is implied in the image of father and sister snuggling in the chair; a darker sense, in the mother’s illness (and the “homes” to which we consign “the dying” and “the sick”); finally, transformed by Jackie Robinson’s Hermes-like “theft” of it, “home” becomes home plate. The accomplished transfiguration of “home” in the earlier senses to “home” in this last sense serves, in fact, as the poem’s own home plate. Once we cross it, the poem soon ends.

To Television” is the kind of obliquely autobiographical poem Pinsky has perfected, approaching “home” through odd angles and channels, the “personal” material estranged by mass cultural bits or, often, by literature itself. The deeper your sense of home, growing up, the weirder it must seem that your imagination could dwell in some entirely different place. Pinsky’s hometown seems to have been the sort of vividly “real” place that made the competing vividness of poetry seem deeply uncanny. Imagine, as a young person growing up in Long Branch, that you suddenly find that the excruciations of people very far from you (lovestruck Romans, women whose babies have died, court poets in China or Elizabethan England) weirdly fit you to a T. The battiness of having your identity displaced onto poems, carried away by them to distant ports of call, and returned to you, a teenager in New Jersey: this is something you never get over. Pinsky has a short memoir, “Salt Water,” partly about these ironies of circumstance:

One of the main junkyards in Long Branch used to belong to a man called, oddly enough, Ash. I went to Izzy Ash’s junkyard in the summer of 1962 to get a part for a 1953 Dodge convertible which I proposed to drive out to California. I was going to be a poet, and I was going to Stanford. Mr. Ash took this in as he grunted and tugged at a long-handled wrench, removing the part I needed from a wrecked Coronet.

Pinsky’s intention “to be a poet” isn’t heard, but instead “taken in,” because it isn’t quoted, but instead reported. These are the kinds of swallowed vows and baffled acknowledgments that punctuate an artist’s life in Long Branch. But later, something interesting happens: poetry, which once transported you far from home, takes you back there. The convertible never could have done that. Both the trans-temporality of poems (they can carry you anywhere) and their radical portability (you can carry them anywhere, provided you have a memory) give them an innate advantage over other kinds of devices: Dodges, TVs, or the “half-ton infant” in Pinsky’s poem “The Green Piano”:

You blocked a doorway and filled most of the living room.
The sofa and chairs dwindled to a ram and ewes, cowering; now,
The colored neighbors could be positive we were crazy and rich,
As we thought the people were who gave you away for the moving
Out of their carriage house—they had painted you the color of pea soup.
The drunk man my mother hired never finished antiquing you
Ivory and umber, so you stood half done, a throbbing mistreated noble,

This thing is doomed, a sacrificial beast; but also poignant, precisely because it is so cruelly and excessively embodied. Its body gets budged, bonged, dinged, cracked, swabbed, antiqued, painted green, painted pink, and finally junked. It then goes out of existence, until Pinsky writes a poem named for it that replaces it, the “iron and brass, ten kinds of hardwood and felt” reconstituted by, and therefore trumped by, language. You can memorize “The Green Piano”: to carry the green piano with you would be a much more cumbersome proposition.


If poetry isn’t exactly a fast car, or a TV, or a green piano, what kind of contrivance is it? Selected Poems is arranged in reverse-chronological order, a manifestation of Pinsky’s interest in circularity over strict linear chronology, his impulse to flip ends and beginnings. “Rhyme,” whose own conclusions are neatly circular, comes first:

Air an instrument of the tongue,
The tongue an instrument
Of the body, the body
An instrument of spirit,
The spirit a being of the air.

As though enacting its own ephemerality, the stanza emerges from, then recedes into, the element it names, “air” (the poem as a whole also ends on this word). And yet, as we soon learn, it isn’t poetry that is ephemeral, but rather the poets themselves who take up temporary residence inside the language. The stanzas that follow strike me as among the best things Pinsky has ever written, as though defying the long odds they set:

A bird the medium of its song.
A song a world, a containment
Like a hotel room, ready
For us guests who inherit
Our compartment of time there.
In the Cornell box, among
Ephemera as its element,
The preserved bird—a study
In spontaneous elegy, the parrot
Art, mortal in its cornered sphere.
The room a stanza rung
In a laddered filament
Clambered by all the unsteady
Chambered voices that share it,
Each reciting
I too was here
In a room, a rhyme, a song.
In the box, in books: each element
An instrument, the body
Still straining to parrot
The spirit, a being of air.

The crucial moment here is when the word “parrot” becomes a verb: by “parroting” we become stuffed parrots, taxidermy versions of ourselves suspended forever in the art we leave behind. It’s a brilliant trick, used to deliver the news, both good and bad, that our artifacts (if we build them properly, as Cornell did, and as Pinsky does) outlast us. New, future souls assemble inside them.

In this account, poems are a kind of temporal agora, a public space where citizens of time come to congregate. This sounds a little mystical, but it is, in fact, precisely social, if “social” is understood to refer not only to the gatherings of living people along the x-axis of historical time—the here and now—but also along the y-axis of artistic time. Viewed from that perspective, “the present” is like a little provincial village (perhaps like Long Branch) we can’t wait to get out of:

I live in the little village of the present
But lately I forget my neighbors’ names.
More and more I spend my days in the City:
The great metropolis where I can hope
To glimpse great spirits as they cross the street,
Souls durable as the cockroach and the lungfish.
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