Notes on Olson's Projective Verse

My purpose for rewriting Olson’s Projective Verse essay is twofold. One, to make it an inclusive essay as opposed to exclusive. Two is to improve its projective resonance; men are not the only sapiens who breathe. The reason I choose to use a scattering of (pro)nouns, as well as invented ones, is to drive home the point that gender is another of “the conventions which logic has forced on syntax…” and, in addition, “...must be broken open as quietly as must too set feet of the old line.” In other words, a pseudoscience which must be mythbusted.

(projective(percussive(prospective vs the NON-Projective

(or what a French critic calls “closed” verse, that verse which print bred and which is pretty much what we have had, in English and American, and have still got, despite the work of Pound and Williams:

it led Keats, already a hundred years ago, to see it (Wordsworth’s, Milton’s) in the light of “the Egotistical Sublime”; and it persists, at this latter day, as what you might call the private-soul-at-any-public-wall)

Verse, now, 1950, if it is to go ahead, if it is to be of essential use, must, I take it, catch up and put into itself certain laws and possibilities of breath, of the breathing of the woman who writes as well as of their listenings. (The revolution of the ear, 1910, the trochee’s heave, asks it of the younger poets.)

I want to do two things: first, try to show what projective or OPEN verse is, what it involves, in its act of composition, how, in distinction from the non-projective, it is accomplished; and II, suggest a few ideas about what stance toward reality brings such verse into being, what that stance does, both to the poet and to their reader. (The stance, involves, for example, a change beyond, and larger than, the technical, and may, the way things look, lead to new poetics and to new concepts from which some sort of drama, say, or of epic, perhaps, may emerge.)

First, some simplicities that a man learns, if they work in OPEN, or what can also be called COMPOSITION BY FIELD, as opposed to inherited line, stanza, over-all form, what is the “old” base of the non-projective. (1) the kinetics of the thing. A poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it (he will have some several causations), by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader. Okay. Then the poem itself must, at all points, be a high energy-construct and, at all points, an energy-discharge. So: how is the poet to accomplish the same energy, how is she, what is the process by which a poet gets in, at all points energy at least the equivalent of the energy which propelled one in the first place, yet an energy which is peculiar to verse alone and which will be, obviously,, also different from the energy which the reader, because they are a third term, will take away.

This is the problem which any poet who departs from closed form is specially confronted by. And it involves a whole series of new recognitions. From the moment she ventures into FIELD COMPOSITION– put herself in the open– he can go by no track other than the one the poem under hand declares, for itself. Thus one has to behave, and be, instant by instant, aware of some several forces just now beginning to be examined. (It is much more, for example, this push, than simply such a one as Pound put, so wisely, to get us started: “the musical phrase,” go by it, children, rather than by, the metronome.)

(2) is the principle, the law which presides conspicuously over the composition, and, when obeyed, is the reason why a projective poem can come into being. It is this: FORM IS NEVER MORE THAN AN EXTENSION OF CONTENT. (Or so it got phrased by one, R. Creeley, and it makes absolute sense to me, with this possible corollary, that right form, in any given poem, is the only and exclusively possible extension of content under hand.) There it is, siblings, sitting there, for USE.

Now (3) the process of the thing, how the principle can be made so to shape the energies that form is accomplished. And I think it can be boiled down to one statement (first pounded into my head by Edward Dahlberg): ONE PERCEPTION MUST IMMEDIATELY AND DIRECTLY LEAD TO A FURTHER PERCEPTION. It means exactly what it says, is a matter of, at all points (even, I should say, of our management of daily reality as of the daily work) get on with it, keep moving, keep in, speed, the nerves, their speed, the perceptions, theirs, the acts, the split second acts, the whole business, keep it moving as fast as you can, citizen. And if you also set up as a poet, USE USE USE the process at all points, in any given poem always, always one perception must must must MOVE, INSTANTER, ON ANOTHER! So there we are, fast, there’s the dogma. And its excuse, its usableness, in practice. Which gets us, it ought to get us, inside the machinery, now, 1950, of how projective verse is made.

If I hammer, if I recall in, keep calling in, the breath, the breathing as distinguished from the hearing, it is for cause, it is to insist upon a part that breath plays in verse which has not (due, I think, to the smothering of the power of the line by too set a concept of foot) has not been sufficiently observed or practiced, but which has to be if verse is to advance to its proper force and place in the day, now, ahead. I take it that PROJECTIVE VERSE teaches, is, tis lesson, that the verse will only do in which a poet manages to register both the acquisitions of their ear and the pressures of his breath.

Let’s start from the smallest particle of all, the syllable. It is the king and pin of versification, what rules and holds together the lines, the larger forms, of a poem. I would suggest that verse here and in England dropped this secret from the late Elizabethans to Ezra Pound, lost it, in the sweetness of meter and rime, in a honey-head. (The syllable is one way to distinguish the original success of blank verse, and its falling off, with Milton.)

It is by their syllables that words juxtapose in beauty, by these particles of sound as clearly as by the sense of the words which they compose. In any given instance, because there is a choice of words, the choice, if a wan is in there, will be, spontaneously, the obedience of their ear to the syllables. The fineness, and the practice, lie here, at the minimum and source of speech.

O western wynd, when wilt thou blow

And the small rain down shall rain

O Christ that my lover were in my arms

And I in my bed again

It would do no harm, as an act of correction to both prose and verse as now written, if both rime and meter, and, in the quantity of words, both sense and sound, were less in the forefront of the mind than the syllable, if the syllable, that fine creature, were more allowed to lead the harmony on. With this warning, to those who would try: to step back here to this place of the elements and minims of language, is to engage speech where it is least careless– and least logical. Listening for the syllables must be so constant so scrupulous, the exaction must be so complete, that the assurance of the ear is purchased at the highest– 40 hours a day– price. For from the root out, from all over the place, the syllable comes, the figures of, the dance.

“Is” comes from the Aryan root, as, to breathe. The English “not” equals the Sanskrit na, which may come from the root na, to be lost, to perish. “Be” is from bhu, to grow.

I say the syllable, ruler, and that it is spontaneous, this way: the ear, the ear which has collected, which has listened, the ear, which is so close to the mind that it is the mind’s, that it has the mind’s speed… it is close, another way: the mind is sibling to the sibling, and is, because it is so close, is the drying force, the incest, the sharpener… it is from the union of the mind and the ear that the syllable is born. But the syllable is only the first child of the incest of verse (always, that Egyptian thing, it produces twins!). The other child is the LINE. And together, these two, the syllable and the line, they make a poem, they make that thing, the–what shall we call it, the Boss of all, the “Single Intelligence.” And the line comes (I swear it) from the breath, from the breathing of the wan who writes, at the moment that she writes, and thus is, it is here that, the daily work, the WORK, gets in, for only they, the wan who writes, can declare, at every moment, the line its metric and its ending– where its breathing, shall come to, termination.

The trouble with most work, to my taking, since the breaking away from traditional lines and stanzas, and from such wholes as, say Chaucer’s Troilus or S’s Lear, is: contemporary workers go lazy RIGHT HERE WHERE THE LINE IS BORN.

Let me put it baldly. The two halves are:

the HEAD, by way of the EAR, to the

SYLLABLE

the HEART, by way of the BREATH, to the

LINE

And the joker? that it is in the 1st half of the proposition that, in composing, one lets-it-rip; and that it is in the 2nd half, surprise, it is the LINE that’s the baby that gets, as the poem is getting made, the attention, the control, that it is right here, in the line, that the shaping takes place, each moment of the going.

I am dogmatic, that the head shows in the syllable. The dance of the intellect is there, among them, prose or verse. Consider the best minds you know in this here business: where does the head show, is it not, precise here, in the swift currents of the syllable? can’t you tell a brain when you see what it does, just there? It is true, what the master says he picked up from Confusion: all the thots wen are capable of can be entered on the back of a postage stamp. So, is it not the PLAY of a mind we are after, is not that that shows whether a mind is there at all?

The elements of language are finite, but the poet through her attentiveness (PLAY of mind) is the person who makes use of words in a particular sophisticated way.

And the threshing floor for the dance? Is it anything but the LINE? And when the line has, is a deadness, is it not a heart which has gone lazy, is it not, suddenly, slow things, similes, say, adjectives or such, that we are bored by? For there is a whole flock of rhetorical devices which have now to be brought under a new bead, now that we sight with the line. Simile is only one bird who comes down, too easily. The descriptive functions generally have to be watched, every second, in projective verse, because of their easiness, and thus their drain on the energy which composition by field allows into a poem. Any slackness takes off attention, that crucial thing, from the job in hand, from the push of the line under hand at the moment, under the reader’s eye, in their moment. Observation of any kind is, like argument in prose, properly previous to the act of the poem, and, if allowed in, must be so juxtaposed, apposed, set in, that it does not, for an instant, sap the going energy of the content toward its form.

It comes to this, this whole aspect of the newer problems. (We now enter, actually, the large area of the whole poem, into the FIELD, if you like, where all the syllables and all the lines must be managed in their relations to each other.) It is a matter, finally, of OBJECTS, what they are, what they are inside a poem, how they got there, and once there, how they are to be used. This is something I want to get to in another way in Part II, but for the moment, let me indicate this, that every element in an open poem (the syllable, the line, as well as the image, the sound, the sense) must be taken up as participants in the kinetic of the poem just as solidly as we are accustomed to take what we call the objects of reality; and that these elements are to be seen as creating the tensions of a poem just as totally as do those other objects create what we know as the world.

The objects which occur at every given moment of composition (of recognition, we can call it) are, can be, must be treated exactly as they do occur therein and not by any ideas or preconceptions from outside the poem, must be handled as a series of objects in field in such a way that a series of tensions (which they also are) are made to hold, and to hold exactly inside the content and the context of the poem which has forced itself, through the poet and them, into being.

Because breath allows all the speech-force of language back in (speech is the “solid” of verse, is the secret of a poems energy), because, now, a poem has, by speech, solidity, everything in it can now be treated as solids, objects, things; and, though insisting upon the absolute difference of the reality of the verse from that other dispersed and distributed thing, yet each of these elements of a poem can be allowed, once the poem is well composed, to keep, as those other objects do, their proper confusions.

Which brings us up, immediately, bang, against tenses, in fact against syntax, in fact against grammar generally, that is, as we have inherited it. Do not tenses, must they not also be kicked around anew, in order that time, that other governing absolute, may be kept, as must the space-tensions of a poem, immediate, contemporary to the acting-on-you of the poem? I would argue that here, too, the LAW OF THE LINE, which projective verse creates, must be hewn to, obeyed, and the conventions which logic has forced on syntax must be broken open as quietly as must the too set feet of the old line. But an analysis of how far a new poet can stretch the very conventions on which communication by language rests, is too big for these notes, which are meant, I hope it is obvious, merely to get things started.

Let me just throw in this. It is my impression that all parts of speech suddenly, in composition by field, are fresh from both sound and percussive use, spring up like unknown, unnamed vegetables in the patch, when you work it, come spring. Now take Hart Crane. What strikes me in him is the singleness of the push to the nominative, his push along that one arc of freshness, the attempt to get back to word as handle. (If logos is word as thought, what is word as noun, as, pass me that, as Newman Shea used to ask, at the galley table, put a jib on the blood, will ya.) But there is a loss in crane of what Fenollosa is so right about, in syntax, the sentence as first act of nature, as lightning, as passage of force from subject to object, quick, in this case, from Hart to me, in every case, from me to you, the VERB between two nouns. Does not Hart miss the advantages, by such an isolated push, miss the point of the whole front of the syllable, line, field, and what happened to all language, and to the poem, as a result?

I return you now to London, to beginnings, to the syllable, for the pleasures of it, to intermit:

If music be the food of love, play on,

give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

the appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again. It had a dying fall,

o, it came over my ear like the sweet sound

that breathes upon a bank of violets,

stealing giving odour.

What we have suffered from, is manuscript, press, the removal of verse from its producer and its reproducer, the voice, a removal by one, by two removes from its place of origin and its destination. For the breath has a double meaning which latin had not yet lost.

The irony is, from the machine has come one gain not yet sufficiently observed or used, but which leads directly on toward projective verse and its consequences. It is the advantage of the typewriter that, due to its rigidity and its space precisions, it can, for a poet, indicate exactly the breath, the pauses, the suspensions ven of syllables, the juxtapositions even of parts of phrases, which they intend. For the first time the poet has the stave and the bar a musician has had. For the first time she can, without the convention of rime and meter, record the listening he has done to his own speech and by that one act indicate how they would want any reader, silently or otherwise, to voice her work. It is time we picked the fruits of the experiments of Cummings, Pound, Williams, each of whom has, after his way, already used the machine as a scoring to his composing, as a script to its vocalization. It is now only a matter of the recognition of the conventions of composition by field for us to bring into being an open verse as formal as the closed, with all its traditional advantages.

If a contemporary poet leaves a space as long as the phrase before it, they mean that space to be held, by the breath, an equal length of time. If she suspends a word or syllable at the end of the a line (this was most Cummings’ addition) he means that time to pass that it takes the eye– that hair of time suspended– to pick up the next line. If he wishes a pause so light it hardly separates the words, yet does not want a comma– which is an interruption of the meaning rather than the sounding of the line– follow them when she uses a symbol of the typewriter has ready to hand:

“What does not change / is the will to change”

Observe them, when he takes advantage of the machine’s multiple margins, to juxtapose:

“Sd he:

to dream takes no effort

to think is easy

to act is more difficult

but for a man to act after he has taken

thought, this!

is the most difficult thing of all”

Each of these lines is a progressing of both meaning and the breathing forward, and then a backing up, without a progress or any kind of movement outside the unit of time local to the idea.

There is more to be said in order that this convention be recognized, especially in order that the revolution out of which it came may be so forwarded that work will get published to offset the reaction now afoot to return verse to inherited forms of cadence and rime. But what I want to emphasize here, by this emphasis on the typewriter as the personal and instantaneous recorder of the poets work, is the already projective nature of verse as the children of Pound and Williams are practicing it. Already they are composing as though verse was to have the reading its writing involved, as though not the eye but the ear was to be its measurer, as though the intervals of its composition could be so carefully put down as to be precisely the intervals of its registration. For the ear, which once had the burden of memory to quicken it (rime and regular cadence were its aids and have merely lived on in print after the oral necessities were ended) can now again, that the poet has their means, be the threshold of projective verse.

II

Which gets us to what I promised, the degree to which the projective involves a stance toward reality outside a poem as well as a new stance toward reality of a poem itself. It is a matter of content, the content of Homer or of Euripides or of Seami as distinct from that which I might call the more “literary” masters. From the moment the projective purpose of the act of verse is recognized, the content does– it will– change. If the beginning and the end is breath, voice in its largest sense, then the material of verse shifts. It has to. It starts with the composer. The dimension of her line itself changes, not to speak of the change in his conceiving, of the matter they will turn to, of the scale in which they imagine that matter’s use.

I myself would pose the difference by physical image. It is no accident that Pound and Williams were both involved variously in a movement which got called “objectivism.” But that word was taken used in some sort of a necessary quarrel, I take it, with “subjectivism.” It is now too late to be bothered with the latter. It has excellently done itself to death, even though we are all caught in its dying.

What seems to me a more valid formulation for present use is “objectism,” a word to be taken to stand for the kind of relation of man to experience which a poet might state as the necessity of a line or a work to be as wood is, to be as clean as wood is as it issues from the hand of nature, to be shaped as wood can be when a man has had her hand to it. Objectism is the getting rid of the lyrical interference of the individual as ego, of the “subject” and her soul, that peculiar presumption by which western wan had interposed themself between what they are as a creature of nature (with certain instructions to carry out) and those other creations of nature which we may, with no derogation, call objects. For a huwan is themself an object, whatever they may take to be their advantages, particularly at that moment they achieve an humilitas sufficient to make them of use. It comes to this: the use of a wan, by themself and thus by others, lies in how they conceive of their relation to nature, that force to which they owe their somewhat small existence. If they sprawl, they shall find little to sing but themself, and shall sing, nature has such paradoxical ways, by way of artificial forms outside of themself. But if they stay inside themself, if they are contained within their nature as they are participant in the larger force, they will be able to listen, and their hearing through himself will give them secrets objects share. And by an inverse law their shapes will make their own way. It is in this sense that projective act, which is the artist’s act in the larger field of objects, leads to dimensions larger than the wan. For a wan’s problems, the moment they take speech up in all its fullness, is to give the work their seriousness, a seriousness sufficient to cause the thing they make to try to take its place alongside the things of nature. This is not easy. Nature works from reverence, even in her destructions (species go down with a crash). But breath is man’s special qualification as animal. sound is a dimension they have extended. language is one of their proudest acts. And when a poet rests in these as they are in themself (in their physiology, if you like, but the life in them, for all that) then they, they choose to speak from these roots, work in that area where nature has given them size, projective size.

It is projective size that the play, The Trojan Women, possesses, for it is able to stand, is it not, as its people do, beside the Aegean– and neither Andromache or the sea suffer diminution. In a less “heroic” but equally “natural” dimension Seami causes the Fisherman and Angel to Stand clear in Hagoromo. And Homer, who is such an unexamined cliche that I do not hink I need to press home in what scale Nausicaa’s girls wash their clothes. Such works, I should argue– and I use them simply because their equivalents are yet to be done– could not issue from wen who conceived verse without the full relevance of human voice, without reference to where lines come from, in the individual who writes. Nor do I think it accident that, at this end point of the argument, I should use, for examples, two dramatists and an epic poet. For I would hazard to guess that, if projective verse is practiced long enough, is driven ahead hard enough along the course I think it dictates, verse again can carry much larger material than it has carried in our language since the Elizabethans. But it can’t be jumped. We are only at the beginnings, and if I think that the Cantos make more “dramatic” sense than do the plays of Mr. Eliot, it is not because I think they have solved the problem, but because the methodology of the verse in them points a way by which, one day, the problem of a larger content and of larger forms may be solved. Eliot is, in fact, a proof of a present danger, of “too easy” a going on in the practice of verse as it has been, rather than as it must be, practiced. There is no question, for example, that Eliot’s line, from “Prufrock” on down, has speech-force, is “dramatic”, is, in fact, one of the most notable lines since Dryden.

I suppose it stemmed immediately to him from Browning, as did so many of Pound’s early things. In any case, Eliot’s line has obvious relations backward to the Elizabethans, especially to the soliloquy. Yet O.M. Eliot is not projective. It could even be argued (and I say this carefully, as I have said all things about the non-projective, having considered how each of us must save themself after their own fashion and how much, for that matter, each of us owes to the non-projective, and will continue to owe, as both go alongside each other) but it could be argued that it is because Eliot has stayed inside the non-projective that he fails as a dramatist– that his root is mind alone, and a scholastic mind at that (no high intelletto despite his apparent clarities)– and that, in his listenings he has stayed there where the ear and the mind are, has only gone from his fine ear outward rather than, as I say a projective poet will, down through the workings of their own throat to that place where breath comes from, where breath has its beginnings, where drama has come from, where, the coincidence is, all act springs.

My notes on the essay

• breath-heart-line, syllable-ear-head

  • you could start at any point in either cycle

  • two cycles meet to make a spiral

• play of a mind shows its intelligence - how do you change the meaning of syllables, call up similar or very different ideas/images by clever use of syllables

• he says drama or epic is his hope for modern verse

  • i should read some more baldwin

• what do we need to remember? what is the purpose of an exclusively oral verse these days, in creation and then in existence?

• needs a response because olson wrote it in 1950, when he said the typewriter changed the way the poet could communicate their breath. well it is 2022, and we have word processors on our computers and AI’s writing poetry (sidenote on AI poetry–it is an interesting reflection of the language and therefore mindset of the masses)

  • given the context of current language use (particularly in english), the response to Projective Verse is acknowledgement of the Intrajective verse, further elaborated below

• refers to poem as a transfer of energy: from source (inspiration) through the poet, into the poem and thus to the reader

  • the poet must account for entropy: some energy is lost in every transfer

    • this can be accounted for in form (energy sink think carbon sink) and in perception

      • energy must be transferred through something - that something, when it comes to the poem, is perception. the poem is a sink which holds energy. the poem itself is nothing more than potential energy. it needs to be dropped on its head, heated, exposed to light, like an electromagnet, it needs a current to produce its field of force, read for any of the energy to be transferred

      • the poem is the focal point of this process. energy comes through the poet to form the poem. then the poem goes through the reader to become energy output there.

• form is an extension of content

• one perception leads to another perception

  • idle (in the zen buddhist sense) but do not idle

• breath, breathe, the poet into and with the poem

• breath to line

• ear to syllable

  • syllable as the smallest building block of verse

• break grammar and break poetic feet

• syllable - line - field

• “breath. voice in its largest sense”

• objectism

  • stepping away from lyricality / ego / above-it-ness and into the object of the poem. the poet is an object in the net of the energy flow of the poem as much as the subject is.

  • the poet, to achieve mastery, must listen to the secrets objects share

  • the poet must rest on language, and thus breath, as the unique gift of nature to humanity. language itself is still but an object, but it is from language the poet projects.

    • is language truly unique (to humans)? might we understand the language of plants, animals, etc… and thus… project fu(a)rther?

  • “nature works from reverence, even in her destruction”

    • the poet must break language, from a place of reverence, in order to create their art. (line) breaks are one way to release energy. destruction begets creation, but energy is constant, it simply changes form.

• non-projective goes with projective, as all things go with one another

  • non-projective stays in the ear, in the mind, taking it one step deeper, perhaps there is a door there, a window, some kind of opening one might weedle their way through, and eventually come the intrajective. if projective originates at the breath and exudes energistically out, intrajective verse starts parallel, at the pulse, and goes, energistically, to the universe within. the ego sits in the chest, between breath and pulse, and can bleed into both. the intrajective verse relies also on objectism and requires a shift in perspective we are not typically accustomed to, which is the analysis of the microscopic (to us) energy within. perhaps this energy accumulates, burgeoning toward the surface, desirous of pushing through the ego, through the poet, to be projected outward. or it hides within. regardless, this is the pre writing, the 10 year research project (as whoever it was described it), ginsberg’s mind writing slogans, the accumulation of energy. this is the poem before it is the poem, or what the poet is made from.

  • this is also hemmed by the language of the poet. not just that the poet makes use of their gift with language, but the pulse, blood of the poem, as the breath is the syllable, is the lettering. in spanish, the poet captures different “objects” than they do in japanese. in english, different than in hebrew. (and thus the difficulties of translation Pound points out in logopoeia and near impossibility of melopoeia)

  • In other words, intrajective verse may be considered the voice of the poet - formed and made unique as a snowflake by the structure and material properties that make up the filter that is the poet (inspiration [potential energy], moved through the filter/lens/mirror [the poet/language in which they compose], and projected on to the reader, who processes the energy in a manner unique to themself)

    • As santoka put it in his essay Michi (The Way): “The material for poetry exists anywhere and at any time. In the way you grasp it, or in other words, in the way you see nature, your own character is revealed and your own life realized. In the same way, the character of your verses will be established and their quality made apparent.”

  • A poem has as much meaning as is ascribed to it by the reader.

• equally interesting to me is the energy lost along the way, the entropy that lends to the gradual inclination of the universe toward chaos. this energy, is, by its nature, evasive of any kind of capture or perception, except for the lack of it. what the poet (or any person) can perceive is only where the energy used to be.

  • these questions then arise: how to identify that space? what meaning do we draw from that space? where does the energy we draw on to interpret the space come from? perhaps this is the intrajective verse, the pulse of the poem.

  • Despite the presence of entropy, a poem (or any art form) is powerful in that the potential energy imbued within it is not lost when it transfers to a reader. On the contrary, the longer a poem endures, the more potential energy it gathers, the more it can bring to the next being who reads it.