THE POETRY OF JOSÉ
GARCIA VILLA
José Garcia Villa
Dovelgion
Collected Poems
Penguin Classics, 2008
260 pages
In September 2008, I received
an e-mail from John Edwin Cowen, whom I never met or corresponded with, but
knew to be José Garcia Villa’s literary trustee; he invited me to a celebration
on the campus of New York University.
The event was in honor of the publication of the collected poems of
Villa, published one hundred years after the poet’s birth in the Philippines in
1908. Of course I attended.
The celebration went well,
but I must say that José deserved a much larger response. Although he was terribly ignorant of
classical music, he had an impeccable ear for the music of language and was a
versifier sans pareil. True, the
subject matter, although on occasion strikingly profound and original, sometimes wore thin, but as José wrote in an
excellent Xocerism ( a collection of aphorisms contained in the book--Xoce is a
transliteration of “José” from the Russian: “Form is to Substance what a wet
T-shirt is to a fine body.” (Page 247--All page numbers in this article refer
to those of the Penguin edition.) This
is a fine example of the sensuality, humor and seriousness typical of Villa’s
work. You always got a splendid T-shirt with José, sometimes very fine bodies,
too. (Contrast this with a good deal of
modern poetry, where all you get is a naked lump of misshapen clay without any
artistic covering at all.)
The book makes a good case
that José’s work should not be forgotten.
Poets and readers at the very least should be familiar with his best
poems. Poets should study his “Adaptations,”
his versifications of prose, and his “Duo-Technique” poems, which provide
horizontal tension at the same place in each verse. One will have no doubt, after studying these,
that not even Marianne Moore could versify better than Villa.
He certainly had faults,
too--who doesn’t? He is interested in
the reflections of the inner eye; the resultant poetry suffers often from being
too abstract. Even when trying to be,
his poems are not always profound. For
instance, the “God” of his poems is often a thinly-veiled version of his
father, with whom he had a terrible conflict.
Mannerisms sometimes got the best
of him--What are we to make of such lines as
…Rain. That
Doth leave no stain…
(page 15)
or
Him have I chosen
To be berosen./
(page 56)
Poets should be remembered
for the best work, however; and some of Villa’s poetry is quite memorable. Some of the inclusions in the book, written
after I lost contact with him in the 1970s, were new to me. They contain many
gems. I was delighted, for instance, to
see signs of great maturity in the aphorisms he wrote at the end of his life. A
striking example:
God is without scientific
proof. Thank God!
(page 244)
With great economy this
renders absurd all forms of fundamentalism--the belief that God is a fact--The
aphorism denigrates literalism of belief, however, not in the name of atheism, as is common
today--but in the name of--dare we say--true religion. (José had an advantage
here, since religion is much closer to poetry than to prose.) For moderns who understand the two facets of
this aphorism, namely dismissing dogma while asserting faith--religion need not
be an anachronism.
I must say, however, that José the man did
not come across either during the celebration at NYU or in the otherwise fine
introduction to the Penguin edition by a former student of his, Luis H.
Francia. José was often wild, out of control.
What Toscanini said about the composer Richard Strauss could be applied
to José: “To the composer Richard Strauss I take off my hat; to the man Richard
Strauss, I put it on again.” In my case,
though, I take off my hat to the man, too.
Underneath, he was kind, good and generous. But the conflict with his father; the
loneliness of being an artist in a world where poetry counts as almost nothing;
being a Filipino in a predominantly white environment; the difficulty of being
homosexual during a very homophobic time--all of these factors took a terrible
toll on him. Yes, Lord, he was sometimes difficult indeed. I choose not to provide
examples.
Although the man sometimes failed, the
artist often succeeded. Anyone with any
interest in poetry should purchase this definitive book of his work and read it
from cover to cover. John Edwin Cowen is
to be much commended. After its
appearance one can only say this: if José’s poetry falls into oblivion, it is
our fault, not his.
José Garcia Villa, 1908-1997,
was my mentor in poetry from 1967 until 1972.
I have never met anyone like him.
Not only a fine poet, Villa was a superb teacher. Personally, he could be generous as well as
cruel; he was witty; sad, ironic,
joyous, and sometimes, frankly, strange.
I first met Villa in the fall
of 1967. My brother advised me to take a
course of Villa’s at The New School in New
York, which I did. I remember nervously
reading over and over my introductory poem, as I rode the subway en route to
our first encounter. José was a ruthless
critic, I had been warned. To my utter
delight, he praised my poem and predicted I would become a poet. (I have been trying to fulfill that
prediction ever since, with some success.)
Villa was considered a major
poet during the l940s and 1950s. Edith
Sitwell, who received a copy of his 1942 book “Have Come, Am Here,”(Viking Press),
stated that the best poems of this volume were “amongst the most beautiful written in our time.” Cummings,
Eberhart, Van Doren and many others lavishly praised his work. His innovations in poetry were both
criticized and praised. Even before he was critically acclaimed in the West, he
had made a firm name for himself in the Philippines. He received many honors from his native
country, including an honorary doctorate from the University of the Philippines; the dictator Ferdinand Marcos declared him
the National Poet of the Philippines in 1972.
For several years, he was the nominee of the Philippine government for a
Nobel Prize. But after his last major poem,
“The Anchored Angel,” appeared in The Times Literary Supplement in 1954, Villa’s work began to fall into obscurity. (His last major book, “Selected Poems and New,” appeared in 1958.) Villa gave up writing poetry around this time and
turned his attention to teaching. He had a difficult personality, one that
hardly endeared him to the poetry establishment. (He told me that Oscar Williams, who did not
include a poem by Villa in his famous anthology, perhaps out of spite, refused
to be present at any gathering that included Villa. Lord knows what José said
to him to have caused this antagonism.)
Poets who praised him did not necessarily receive compliments in return.
(He told me that one evening at a literary gathering Allan Ginsberg bowed down
before him, acknowledging Villa as the superior poet. Villa offered him no praise in return, since
he did not think much of Ginsberg’s writing.)
In addition to his acerbic
tongue, other factors, as mentioned in Part l, contributed to the neglect of
Villa’s poetry: an aesthete par
excellence, he did not have a wide range of subject matter; he neglected the
eye at the expense of the ear. His ear
for poetry, however, was extraordinary.
At the end of his career, he ceased to be innovative–He often told me, citing Cummings as an example, that
older poets tend to repeat themselves, and should know when it’s time to quit. Styles change; what once appeared as
verbal dazzlement began to look like mere rhetoric. Another major factor in Villa’s increasing obscurity is that he did not do anything
to promote his poetry once he stopped writing.
(“I’ll be rediscovered one day, though,” he predicted.)
I do not contend that Villa
is a major poet. I do contend, however,
that the best of his poems should not be forgotten. I hope that the examples in the essay will
convince readers of this fact, and encourage them to read Villa’s poetry.
First, let us turn our
attention briefly to his biography.
Villa was born in 1908 to a prominent Philippine family. His father was the personal physician to a
general
during the revolution against Spain. To his father’s dismay, Villa decided to become an artist. His early poetry was deemed obscene and
resulted in his dismissal from the university where he studied. He came to the
United States in 1930 and lived there until his death. His first book, a collection of short stories
with Philippine themes, “Footnote to Youth,” was
championed by Sherwood Anderson.
Although he had gained some reputation as a painter and as a writer of
prose, Villa soon became convinced that his true vocation was poetry. With some trepidation, he sent some poems to
Cummings; the latter was very favorably impressed. Cummings later dedicated a poem to him, “Doveglion.” Three major collections of poetry followed.
His best poems might suffer
from comparison to the best poems of Yeats, Frost, and Hopkins; they
nevertheless provide considerable aesthetic delight. (José always told us that the purpose of
poetry is to delight.)
Let us turn our attention to
some examples. Each of the three poems
to be discussed I believe to be first-rate; each will be used to illustrate an
important aspect of what, according to Villa, is important in poetry.
1. Music and Meaning
Villa, a language poet,
emphasized that musicality is most important; although music comes first, this
does not mean that meaning isn’t significant. In the best poems, they are fused. Our first
example, which illustrates this point,
is a lyric from his first major book of poetry, “Have Come, Am Here..,” which appeared in 1942:
O the Eyes that will see me,
And the Mouth that will kiss me.
And the Rose I will stand on,
And the Hand that will turn me.
This will be in a Time of mirrors.
O the Tiger that will point me,
And the Light that will drown me.
And the Voice that will sing me,
And the God I will dethrone.
This is the Death I will stand on.
(Page 5)
The music of this poem is
exquisite. The gentle vowels and the rolling, dignified anapests not only
sound beautiful, but they perfectly reflect the meaning of the poem–a feat only the best poets can accomplish. Notice the first three words of the poem:
the two unaccented words are climaxed by the brightly voweled word “Eyes.” Even if we did not
know what the word “eyes” meant, by the rhythm and the verbal qualities of the
first three words we know that we have arrived at something important. “Eyes” is a representation of the protagonist’s fulfillment, that is, seeing God face to face. (Line 9 does not contradict this: Villa
refers to “the God I will dethrone,” using the definite article, that is, referring to a
specific, lesser God;
we presume that “the Eyes that will see” belong to the God that
surpasses all wisdom and understanding.)
The vowels of the subsequent three lines are darker, and thus more
subdued. It’s as if the protagonist is not quite so sure that what
he so ardently hopes for will become a reality.
This is another example of meaning being underscored by the sound of the
words; this–quite unlike some modern
poetry--is poetry, not prose.
The fifth line, standing
alone with its strong rhythm, strikes one as a revelation. There is no uncertainty about this line,
coming as a prophecy from the God both without and within. I interpret it in the Hindu sense: on that
final day, self will no longer be selfish–it will be
reflected in all things, it will be all things--peace at last, the inner and
the outer finally being one.
The next three lines provide
the bright vowels of the words tiger, light, and voice. Note
that the course of anapests is broken by the two-syllable word, Tiger. These bright lines are not as sedate as lines
2-4; one reads them faster. It’s as if the protagonist of the poem has become
invigorated by the prophecy of line 5; the train leaving the valley of doubt
has picked up steam. The protagonist now
has increasing certainty that he will arrive at his destination. The quiet fervor of lines 2-4 might be
construed as a desperate hope; the rhythms and textures of lines 6-9 exude
confidence in the future. Note that line
9 returns to a darker-voweled, more sedate rhythm. The iambic “dethrone” coming after the heavily
accented “God,” paralleled by
the heavily accented words denoting God’s competition, that is, “I will,” which is, in comparison,
muted. This is a masterstroke. To arrive where he wants to be, the
protagonist, presumably, has had to struggle long and hard to dethrone the
false God. The achievement of his goal,
projected with certainty to some date in the future, is stated as a simple fact–the struggle isn’t mentioned at
all. This is a striking example of
poetic understatement. It is the polar
opposite to Shelley’s unfortunate line,
“I fall upon the thorns of
life! I bleed!”
2. Poetry Is Not Prose
One of José’s main themes in the teaching–and practicing–of poetry, is that
poetry is not prose. This may appear
obvious, but it bears repeating. The
purpose of prose is, basically, to tell a story; it deals mostly in the past
tense. Poetry, in contrast, must first
of all delight us, as music does, with sound.
(José did not emphasize the importance of metaphor, but he readily
appreciated a good one when he read it, although language always came first for
him.) Not that meaning wasn’t important, but it must not come at the expense of
language. If some one’s primary purpose is to say something, José
informed us, it would be much better for one to write an essay. Although poetry
can and should convey meaning, this is not its primary purpose; to state its
purpose negatively: poetry–and that means
every line--must never be dull.
The divisions between poetry and prose should be respected by both
novelists and poets. José often
illustrated a point he was trying to make, such as this one, with the help of a
New Yorker cartoon. I remember one cartoon that depicted long-haired
individuals; the caption had something to do about gender confusion–this was in the late 1960s. His point was just that society demands, by
and large, that an individual be classified as belonging to one of two sexes;
similarly, aesthetics demands, by and large, to keep intact the divisions
between prose and poetry. Thus, although
José appreciated Joyce’s genius, he
thought that the overly poetic diction of “Finnegans Wake” detracts from the novel on the other hand, he believed that the overly prosaic diction
of Ginsberg was a definite negative.
(Don’t think that José did not
appreciate Whitman–he was a great
admirer. Villa said that Whitman’s greatness became apparent as a cumulative effect.
Many of Whitman’s lines are strikingly
beautiful; this, of course, could not be sustained in long works, but Whitman’s genius triumphs, despite the odds.)
Villa’s emphasis on language was the driving force behind
his teaching that the first line of the poem should be mined from an area much
deeper than superficial layers of thought.
Let it come from your subconscious, but filter it through the alembics
of rhythm and sound. Don’t worry about the meaning at first. Poetry is so very difficult, he told us,
because one has not only to be a musician, one must convey a meaning
poetically, the deeper the better.
Profundity was the criterion by which José classified a poet as minor or
major; for example, Whitman, Frost and Dickinson were by this
classification all major poets, while
Cummings, Moore and Stevens were minor poets.
Poets nevertheless, though, due to their use of language.
Sometimes the meaning of the
first line, and what follows, might not be readily apparent at first, even to
the author. It might not be able to be
put into a prose equivalent at all.
Never mind, Villa taught us, just develop the poem musically, while
respecting the meaning. This illustrates one of the great differences between
poetry and prose. Prose knows or should
know the direction it is heading–one would expect a
novelist to think about the plot of the novel first, before setting down a word–while in poetry, each line should come as a surprise
not only to the reader, but to the author during its composition as well. One of the challenges is to develop a meaning from an apparently meaningless but
beautiful first line by judicious use of language and meaning in the rest of
the poem. A superb example of this technique
follows. I am sure he had no idea where the poem was leading after the first
line came to him. There was always a
little bit of Lewis Carroll in José Garcia Villa; here what seems to be
nonsense at first is transformed, while delighting us line by line, into a
poetic manifesto: poetry should take us beyond the everyday world of prose into
wonder.
Bring the pigeons watermelons, Abelard.
The order has cool philosophic purity.
This is not largesse but Roman nobility.
Bring the peacocks oranges.
Turn the philosophy to sensuousness.
Pallas Athena is Greek thereby.
But if we bring the watermelons pigeons?
If we bring the oranges peacocks?
Is this very difficult?
This would be Greek nor Roman.
This would be purity without philosophy.
This would be artistry.
3. Poetry as Sculpture
Many novices think they can
write decent poetry because a) they have feelings, and b) they already know a
language and don’t have to spend time leaning
to play an instrument like a musician would.
Sancta Simplicitas! We have
already encountered several reasons why the writing of poetry is so difficult:
one must avoid hackneyed speech; one must master language like a musician yet
pay attention to the meaning of words.
To these difficulties, Villa added another: one must pay attention to
not only how the poem looks on the page, but one has to
pay strict attention to how the poem reads, with special attention paid
to line breaks. Versification must never
be chopped prose! This is the sculpture
element of poetry.
José was a master
versifier. He would give us a weekly
assignment, usually a paragraph of
interesting prose. We would versify it,
and, during the next session, would write our versions on the blackboard to be
criticized by all, and, most of all, by José.
Some of us really learned a lot during these sessions. José always had his version, which he
revealed at the end; it was, of course, always very much superior to our
versions.
Toward the end of his career,
Villa versified interesting brief examples of prose culled from his reading,
forty-six examples of which appeared for the first time in his 1958 book, “Selected Poems and New,” (McDowell, Obolensky, New York).
Examples included versified Rilke letters, an excerpt from a New York
Times editorial, letters and prose excerpts by Dylan Thomas, Coleridge, Thomas
Wolfe, etc. I am not sure if the
category “found poem” existed before José’s efforts–he never claimed to have
originated this genre. Yet, from the
viewpoint of versification, these virtuoso pieces are perhaps the finest
example of found poems ever composed.
The Penguin edition contains
fine examples of Villa’s final innovation, the so-called “Duo-Technique” which
provides some lines with horizontal tension as opposed to the usual downward
tension at the end of the line. Some of
these adaptations are very impressive.
Few of José’s original poems
were versified in a tour-de-force way,
as in the “Found Poems“ and “Duo-Technique“ poems; this is a shame, since as a
master of line breaks and indentations, he was the equal of Marianne
Moore. A notable exception to the usual
unindented three or four-line verses that form the bulk of Villa’s poems, is the following one:
God said, “I made a man
Out of clay–
But so
bright he, he spun
Himself to brightest Day
Till he was all shining gold,
And oh,
He
was lovely to behold!
But in his hands held he a bow
Aimed at me who
created
Him. And
I said,
‘Wouldst murder me
Who am thy Fountainhead!’
Then spoke he the man of gold:
‘I will not
Murder thee!
I do but
Measure thee.
Hold
Thy peace.’ And this I did.
But I was curious
Of
this so regal head.
‘Give thy name!’–‘Sir! Genius.’”
(page 31)
To give but one example of the hidden treasures of this poem, notice the
different emphasis “Murder” and “Measure” receive according to the way they are versified. If “Measure” appeared directly under “Murder” it would be
dull. Extending to the left gives it a
different, lighter emphasis, in accord with the vowel texture and with the
meaning. Oh, no, the protagonist is
saying, this isn’t murder, only measure. We suspect, however, that this “measuring” is nothing more than a cover-up of “murdering”–the protagonist,
after all, is aiming a weapon at God.
This subterfuge is achieved, not only by means of the words, but by the
way they are versified. Note also should
be made of the crisp ending, “Sir! Genius!” It sums up
with two words the challenge to God–is “Sir” meant respectfully
or ironically?-- namely that the fire of genius will turn to ash many hitherto
unquestioned notions about Him. Another
example of understatement–“genius” is not elaborated. It also illustrates another one of
José’s points: the last line, just
as important as the first, should refer back to the first line and sum up the
whole poem. (Who is the man made of clay
who spun himself into a man of gold? A
Genius!)
The content of the poem
refers to one of José’s favorite themes:
alternating devotion and iconoclasm with respect to God. Judas is often depicted as a heroic genius in
his poetry. Villa told me once that his
favorite philosopher was Nietzsche, whose philosophy is behind many of his
poems. It is a classic love-hate
conflict. (I’m not sure what José’s inner state was when he wrote these poems, many of
which show some religious devotion in addition to iconoclasm; when I knew him,
however, José was overtly religious.) A
more sober assessment is that behind the genius-God antagonism in Villa’s poems is the terrible father-son conflict of Villa’s personal life.
He told me some examples of his
father’s cruelty, which need not be
repeated here. On the other hand, José
must have been a very difficult son, one completely unfit to fill the shoes his
father had selected for him.
4. Innovation
José believed that innovation
in poetry is very important. He
considered the works of Owen, Dickinson, Cummings and Moore to be modern
examples of technical prowess and innovation in poetry. Villa was very proud of the original
technical aspects of his work. In addition
to the versified found poems already mentioned, he is known for two technical
novelties: the reverse rhyme and comma poetry.
It is best to let Villa speak for himself regarding his new concepts of
versification. The first quote, regarding reverse rhyme, appeared as an
afterward in “Have Come, Am Here”:
The author is pleased to introduce in this book
a new method of rhyming,
a method which has never been used in the
history of English poetry, or in any poetry...The principle involved is that of
reversed consonance. The last sounded
consonants of the last syllable, or the last principal consonants of a word,
are reversed for the corresponding rhyme.
Thus, a rhyme for near would be run; or rain, green,
reign. For light–tell, tall, tale, steal, etc. (page 74)
José then alludes to numerous examples of this techniques in his poetry,
such as the
beginning of the opening poem from “Have Come, Am Here:”: “It is what I never
said,/ what I always sing–/It’s not found in days,/It’s what always begins...” José goes on to say:
That this new method of rhyming can be used
successfully, the author demonstrates in the poems he has mentioned. In the author’s belief, this new rhyme method is subtler and stricter, and less
obtrusive on the ear, than ordinary consonance. (page 74)
Certainly, superficially at least, this type of rhyming is easier, since
many more words can usually be found to rhyme with a word using reverse
consonance as opposed to traditional rhyming. Villa, however, used this
technique by choosing a word that has passed through the strict alembics of his
ear; he used the technique very impressively.
He certainly has a point when he states it is less obtrusive on the ear;
during a first read, many readers, pleased by the beauty of the lines, may not
even be consciously aware of this technique.
To my knowledge, this technique has not been adopted by other poets.
The second innovation, the
comma poems, was introduced in his 1949 book, “Volume Two” (New Directions). This time the author’s explanation comes at the beginning of the book:
The reader of the following poems may be
perplexed and puzzled by my use of the comma: it is a new, special, and poetic
use to which I have put it. The commas
appear in the poems functionally, and thus not for eccentricity; and they are
there also poetically, that is to say not in their prose function. These poems
were conceived with commas, as “comma poems,” in which commas are an integral and essential part of
the medium..(page 78)
A typical example are the opening lines of the first poem of that book: “The,bright, Centipede,/begins,his,stampede!.” (page 79) Note: Villa didn’t want any space after
the comma, a demand that was not followed when the poems were published, but
respected in the Penguin edition.)
José does use the comma as a virtuoso,
sometimes to great effect, but the eye sometimes fatigues from all those
commas. In the best examples, the commas
significantly increase the wonder of the poem; in the worst, this new use of
commas seems rather too clever and precious. Although we can never apply to it
José’s putdown of second rate
innovation, “How cute, how clever, how
crappy,” this technique remains a curiosity with
little heuristic drive. (I read in a NY
Times Book Review article, however, that the French were quite impressed with
José’s innovations–who knows, there might be some French poet in a Paris
attic using these techniques today.)
Edith Sitwell, by the way, a
great admirer of Villa’s poetry, thought
that this new use of the comma was simply “bosh.” This didn’t stop her from selecting one of the comma poems for her anthology; the
editor, however, insisted that the commas be deleted. José countered
that the commas must be included, along with his explication of the new technique as well;
the editor refused. José refused to
accede to his demands while Dame Edith watched tears well into his eyes. His work never appeared in the anthology.
5. Conclusion
Sometimes quirky–sometimes even ridiculous–sometimes quite profound, the poetry of Villa is at
its best quite impressive. It is
remarkable for its music and for what Eberhart
referred to as its “blaze of linguistic
glories.” Just as the best songs of Karl Löwe can be
favorably compared to those of Schumann, José’s best poems are little
masterpieces and can happily survive comparison to the poetry of
Cummings, Stevens, Thomas and others.
Upon reading the best of them,
one is tempted to agree with Sitwell that they were among the best written at
the time. His poems have their faults,
to be sure. José was a very inner
person, his relation to the world and to others was hampered by psychological
problems, and this shows in his poetry.
Perusing the poems in their entirety, the reader becomes increasingly
aware that behind the “blaze of linguistic
glories” is a rather disconnected
human being; behind the niceties of language and rhythm is often a paucity of
experience. Nevertheless, the best poems
demonstrate poetry at a very high level.
Perhaps we should leave the last word to Marianne Moore, as quoted from
the back cover of “Selected Poems and
New”:
He has instinct for design, and his somewhat
curious conjunctions of subject
matter are ‘felt’ not forced nor insistent. He is aware of contemporary
work
without being imitative. What matters most of all, he is not a
destroyer, his work is reverent... Invariably, the after-impression is one of
confidence.
I hope this article has convinced
you of Villa’s impressive talent and has
inspired you to read more of his poetry.
All those interested in poetry should have a copy of the fine centennial
edition of Villa’s poetry. It is odd that a poet so many critics and poets
hailed as a master should be so neglected today. An accurate assessment undoubtedly lies closer to extreme praise than to extreme
neglect; his best poems should not be forgotten. Speaking for myself, I can assure you that I
shall never forget the man nor his poetry, ever.
This article first appeared in the 2008 edition of "Spring, the Journal of the E.E. Cummings Society."
