Oread

Poetry is, essentially, a vehicle for translating meaning, elusive or otherwise, in often-unconventional ways. Poetically speaking, this transfer of information is meant to be slippery. We are rarely, if ever, met with direct “truth” (be it lofty, whimsy, or menial) in poetry. More often than not, poetry embodies a sense of trickery, and innumerous times we are left scratching our heads, without a clue (just look at what’s up Wallace Stevens’ sleeve). But even when we’re left a puzzle, whose exclusion of necessary pieces was intentional -- even then there’s meaning to be found, be it simply the Platonic theory of “I know that I know nothing,” (amidst confusion, why, this is always the prevailing truth).

For me, the beauty of poetry is in the struggle. When played right, it becomes a game to pin down meaning, and what’s really fun is that there’s never a fundamentally wrong or right answers; all interpretations go!

Modernist poetry, in this sense, is sort of like the Wii of the Nintendo generation – both are far more physically orientated, playful, unconventional in relation to predecessors and eye grabbing by nature. What emerged in the 20th century, under the appearance of the Imagists, was a reactionary new forum of Modernist poets that revolted against traditional emphasis on formalism and ornate diction. The outcome was poetic freedom: to iterate meaning without the constraints of regulated meter, the verse, and like inhibitions. While this expulsion of “form” may have taken away some the fun of creating within a box, it did enable a regeneration of poetic exploration and, with it, befuddlement.

One literary convention that I find particularly interesting, which is neither strictly akin to the Modernists nor otherwise, is anthropomorphism. Anthropomorphism is fun. Talking parrots aside, entertainment is easily derived from the portrait of a smoking feline, or witty ferret or existentialist owl. As such, the hybridization of humans and animals is usual central to children’s literature and poetry, with such pieces as “The Wind in the Willow, ” or Beatrix Potter’s series of anthropomorphized stories, most notably “The Tale of Peter Rabbit.”

Arguably, this is because anthropomorphism allows for a sense of escapism. Animals are separate from our own rational species: we speak different languages, have different priorities between reason and instinct, and, generally speaking, aren’t as cute and cuddly. These barriers, most importantly being language and reason, are the dividing crux between animals and ourselves. So, when we see an animal parodying human attributes, its sheer impossibility ignites a sense of fantasy and, thus, the necessity for suspension of disbelief.

This willing suspension of disbelief is an important trope. And not just for children, whose desire to foster imagination makes such thinking easy, if not natural. No - it’s far more important for us. Adults are usually disenchanted by fantasy, because they believe that their elevated understanding of the world places them above such whimsy, and those who derive pleasure from fantasy are, in some way, deemed to have immature tastes. However, it may be argued that it is more our inability to suspend our belief, than our conscious retreat from it, which denies us the pleasure of fantasy. So imbedded in the straightjacket of rationality, it might be that seeing “make-believe” is no longer in our grasp. Willingness to separate oneself from reality allows for creative thought and a metaphysical extension of understanding. Not only is this important for interpreting poetry, but for interpenetrating unconventional meaning as a whole.

Which brings me to the question: what happens when we put talking animals and the like in adult literature, or serious poetry?

Unquestionably, the use of animals with human agency grants access to a world separate from our own. This world is not simply unique, either, by its otherness from people, but from by its entirely new layer of existence. Their world is an extension of ours, since their language, social constructs, and communities mimic ours, however the obvious differences force us to view their world to be intrinsically separate. This separation disassociates their world from ours and, as such, allows us to view it with a subjective eye, as we are not criticizing from underneath the microscope. Too; humans, whether children or adults, respond differently to an animal character than they would a human character. Because we see animals as simple and instinctual, animal characters are deemed as safer and, thus, we impart more trust into animals. This trust, and, with it, suspension of disbelieve, denies us of the hostility that we may react with, if met with a more recognizably unconventional situation. Instead, we are more inclined to believe.

One may view Marianne Moore, editor of Poetry, as the embodiment of animal poetics.

The Pangolin

“Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast
each with a splendor
which man in all his vileness cannot
set aside; each with an excellence!
"Fearful yet to be feared," the armored
ant-eater met by the driver-ant does not turn back, but
engulfs what he can, the flattered sword-
edged leafpoints on the tail and artichoke set leg-and
body-plates
quivering violently when it retaliates
and swarms on him.”

However, Moore does not extend the fantastic beyond the Pangolin’s understanding of reasoning and language, and uses this trope for commentary on animals specifically, as opposed to an extension or caricature of humanity. Her purpose is driven to aid the animal itself; she allows for poetry to act as a manifestation for whatever voice she believes the Pangolin to have, so that he may be heard and respected. While her use of anthropomorphism may be ethically commendable, it still conforms to the adult denial of fantasy, which is so readily evident in children’s stories.

For me, T.S. Eliot comes closest to the fantastical in animal hybridization, with “Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats,” a selection of poems with a propensity towards feline psychology and sociology. Funnily enough, it was the precursor to another capricious spectacle of felines: Cats. “Possum” reads much like Dr. Seus; feigning silliness over somewhat truer undertones:

"The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat -
And there isn't any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything about it!"

But, this leads me back to the question: do we take this seriously? Is anthropomorphized literature really such a poetic anomaly that we cannot truly associate ourselves with it, without in some way undermining it?

I hope that Cats doesn't act as an agent of answer. As, in that case, I would have to say, undeniably, no.