“ – the dangerous words, the padlocked words, the words that do not belong to the dictionary, for if they were written there, written out and not maintained by ellipses, they would utter too fast the suffocating misery of a solitude …” Jean Genet Introduction to “Soledad Brother – The Prison Letters of George Jackson”
Showing posts with label Poetics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetics. Show all posts
Friday, 18 August 2017
What Did The Ancient Greeks Ever Do For Us?
I mean apart from democracy, philosophy, architecture, statuary and theatre, what did the Greeks ever give us? They always come off favourably in comparison with the supposedly more barbarian and plagiarist Romans, but for 'democracy' you also had 'despotism' (read Plato's "The Republic" which shows the way democracy can very easily slide into tyranny through its own lack of true awareness of important values). However it's the philosophy and the theatre which I really want to challenge for the supreme value of their heritage as it has passed down to us.
I'm not going to say too much about the philosophy, except where it has resonance in art. Plato's phenomenalism is a crucial concept to how we perceive reality, with his famous example of slaves in a cave viewing the shadows thrown on the cave walls by their fire, equating to perceptive reality for these slaves who have never seen the world outside of the cave. He derives this example through his belief that the whole world of appearances which we take for reality, is but a degraded version of true reality and (aesthetic/mathematical) beauty.
For the highest existence of any object is its ideal form and in our world, actual objects never attain such an ideal form. Now this represents an important way of thinking & perceiving even in our modern world. Of course there are no 'ideal' forms of objects, but what there are is linguistic nouns which categorise all sorts of various 'non-ideal' forms of similar things; all breeds of dogs are 'Dogs' is the simplest representation of this. But consider something more debatable - is a flatpack table in Ikea's warehouse still a table before it gets sold and erected? Is a slave or hired prostitute at an orgy, who is ordered to bend over so that food can be served from their naked back, are they a table? Is the ammo box that the soldier utilises while on patrol to quickly scoff down his rations, a table, or is it still only an ammo box containing rocket propelled grenades?
Phenomenalism and particularly Nominal Phenomenalism, means that the supposed evidence of our senses and particularly the dominant one of sight, actually goes through a pre-filter of language, grouping similar things together as a shorthand that may not in fact do justice to the complexity of 'reality'. And this filter of language is of course the mainstay and dominant tool of us writers. We can use it to not only describe reality, but to challenge its consensus by really examining its linguistic short-cuts. So we could and possibly should be challenging accepted reality and showing how it has been constructed. Those writers and philosophers who study signs and symbols (semiologists) do this on one level, but writers can bring it to the linguistic realm.
Now let's come to Greek Theatre. It is absolutely entwined with politics in Ancient Greece, that politics being in the main direct participatory democracy (the military oligarchy of Sparta didn't produce much in the way of playwrights). Plays in Athens were performed during religious festivals, the rest of the time the theatres in the small administrative demes were used for political meetings of the whole community entitled to vote. Plays in these festivals were in competition and accordingly were sponsored by patrons, most of whom were professional politicians, else citizens who wanted to wield influence. Many plays debated the issues of recent or contemporary events, while comedies lambasted real prominent citizens to their faces sat there in the audience, to remind them of their place to serve the Polis rather than their own interests. The ancient Greek word for playwright has as its root 'teacher' or trainer, while the word 'Praxis' which Aristotle coined for the dramatic action, also stands for a body of practical political action.
So Greek plays were not politically neutral and for all their show at having both sides of the debate (much like Plato's dialectic philosophical style), actually there was really only one message either the playwright, or his patron wanted to impart (just like Plato's "Republic", though his other dialectic works were more ambiguous and even handed in their conclusions). Plays were always geared to preaching to their audience and that audience were those with the vote in the democracy (so not women or slaves who were excluded from voting). The plays preached reasoned debate, when in fact they were tilting for a single point of view, with their own constructed democracy as the highest value (not an 'ideal' one in Plato's eyes, far from it as above). Those individualist citizens who weren't team players, or those with a tendency towards demagoguery, were constantly being defeated on stage.
For such men displayed 'hubris', that is the excess of pride in imagining yourself above your station within the society. Any individual citizen who wasn't a team player, was regarded as having hubris and all Tragic dramas in the Greek canon had men brought low by their hubris. Indeed even the word 'hero' which reverberates so powerfully in our own society, initially emerged from Greek theatre, not existing outside of that context beforehand. The dramatic hero is a demiurge, that is a man who sees himself superior to his fellow man, halfway to being a god and of course, such tragic heroes are felled by their hubris. The stage actors had to play both heroes and gods, an act and an appropriation involving of hubris in itself just in case any of them got ideas above their station. Hubris implicitly reinforces a 'know your place' attitude, for to flout it inevitably means personal destruction.
The clinching point about this propagandist theatre comes from a word the Greek's themselves coined, 'catharsis'. Catharsis means a purging, initially a purification in the religious sense. But when applied to the theatre by Aristotle in "Poetics" it has a more manipulative meaning. Theatre, in line with praxis, is vicarious, the audience experience the play as brought to them by the actors. We don't know whether they were passive in the amphitheatres, or like Shakespeare's 'Pit' rowdy & interactive with the stage. But by the end of a tragedy, having seen Orestes put out his own eyes, or the abasement and cruelty visited upon "The Trojan Women", or the double suicide of the lovers to conclude "Antigone", the audience are purged of their passions through the very extremity of the emotions wrought in them by the action on stage. That is, the playwright has taken them on such a journey, they are useless for anything at the end of the play. Certainly no call to action, only the playwright's sly reinforcement of whatever particular message he was putting across and the audience too played out to resist that message. Wrung out and spent, they go home marvelling at the stagecraft, story and spectacle, confirmed in the moral teaching the playwright conveyed.
I could go on about how the heritage from the Greeks has further hamstrung us in our modern age. That Greek philosophy's main thrust was seeking to answer the question 'what constitutes a good life?', which for Plato, in the context of a city, was living a 'Just' life. For Aristotle it was living a balanced life, avoiding excess at either end of the spectrum of behaviour. Now this may or may not be a reasonable philosophical question to consider (I would say there are more pressing ones along the line of what is man, why is he here on earth, what is he supposed to achieve in his short life?) But - and you can't necessarily blame the Greeks for this, their inquiry into goodness was hijacked and taken on by the Christian theologian-cum-philosophers, whose answer was of course faith in God and following a set of moral and behavioural commandments. Again, a rigid moral unilateralism that is today in tatters and has led to the evils of slavery, colonialism, subjection of women and our own bodies, which have only furthered the crippling issues we face today.
So yes, I do declare, what have the Ancient Greeks done for us, except to set up the parameters by which we have navigated to our very troubling modern age?
Labels:
Aristotle,
Catharsis,
Democracy,
Despotism,
False Dialectic,
Greek Tragedy,
Heroes,
Hubris,
Language,
Moral Instruction,
Phenomenology,
Philosophy,
Plato,
Poetics,
Politics,
Propaganda,
The Republic,
Theatre
Thursday, 28 February 2013
Calliope, Caltrops And Cantos - Friday Flash
He reached back into his quiver and strung a fine quilled
verse into the arched bow of his lips. He released the quivering tension within
the shaft of his glossa and hurled the finely crafted heroic quatrain at his
adversary. His aim was directly targeted between the other's eyes.
The other man raised his forearm up to his own brow,
seemingly in a gesture of warding off a powerful blow. But his arm continued
its motion over his hair as if peeling off a layer to directly access his own
cranium beneath. His other hand flicked up over his mouth, then his nose and
out toward his rival and brought in its stead a cataract of iambic pentameter
projecting from his mouth like a Catherine Wheel. A furious fusillade of frenetic
phonic flow. It felled his foe, who ricocheted back into the amplifiers like a
skalded cat. But the conqueror did not refrain form his flow in order to don
the proffered victor's laurel wreath. Instead he strode over to the crumpled casualty
and brought the mic to his ear and poured a villainous villanelle of five
withering tercets and a final quatrain which perforated the wretch's eardrum.
He would have served time for assault, this man who was in a hurry, but plea
bargained in stanzas from the dock and agreed to serve in his nation's army.
There he found a bounded outlet for his innate aggression, but his unusual
aptitude for language meant that somehow his insurgent attitude towards
authority was missed by his bamboozled ranking superiors. He represented his
unit in mixed martial arts and in slam poetry contests and swept the boards in
both. Gradually he rose up the hierarchy with stars and stripes pinned to his
jacket. His rhymes softened from those jagged shards of the street, though his
brutal rhythms became utterly martial.
He was given his own troop to command. His men were utterly
loyal to him, for they knew no bullet could best him, nor any inferior superior
officer could outblast his versified attacks on them. Even Generals took his
adept poesy as a sign that he was a deep thinker. Gradually he began to strategise
for divisions of men. Working in his tent by a candle glued into a skull by
magma of melted wax, he plotted the ellipses of armies in the field like the
rhythms across the paper. And when he had cracked the required manoeuvres, he
relaxed by penning some battlefield verses to inspire his troops.
And while the prisoners of war were being rounded up, he
took a tour of the latest liberated hamlet or suburb. He composed verses as he
went. Paeans to the bilious, oily smoke plumes rising like diabolic elementals.
Rhapsodies over the trituration of brick, the warping and shredding of steel
structures. He coupleted cabling splayed and jutting from the mangled remains
like jungle tendrils. Inverted pastoralisms. Villages rendered deserts under
flame, towns metamorphosised into wastelands ("Take that Thomas Stearns
Eliot, you only wrote about a figurative one, whereas I have both brought it
about and them composed an epic treatise on it). He staked out a unique
territory of a poetics of ruin and back home his adoring public loved his metered
missives from the front.
But increasingly in his tent at night, it wasn't only
mosquitoes which pricked his skin. He began to agonise about how the harmony
and beauty of perfectly harnessed language in the form of a poem, could sit
astride such horror and destruction. And more pertinently, how the same two
forces pulling in contradictory directions could both reside within him
simultaneously. How could he be a great, gifted man shone down upon by the
creative light of the gods and muses, if he was also this terrible inhuman
monster who lay waste to everything natural and manmade he encountered? And to
then make art from it? To engender suffering and then romanticise it? His work
went so much farther than mere propagandist doggerel of military and patriotic
glorification. Rather it was the very essence of the human soul he was touching
with his words. Because his own soul was so utterly debased? That could be the
only explanation. Sowing dissonance everywhere in his wake, in order to plumb a
personal seam of assonance?
In the isolation of his tent afforded by his stature and
rank, he took his military pistol and brought it to his head seething with
rhymes. The successful warrior could not be a poet. The successful poet could
not continue to fight. As he pulled the trigger, he lost his first ever battle
in his life.
Labels:
Army,
Death,
Eloquence.,
Friday Flash,
Madness,
Murder,
Poetics,
Poetry,
Rap,
Ruin,
Slam Poetry,
Soul,
Warrior Poets
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