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From 'Robert Creeley and the Genius of the American Common Place.' (excerpt)


Even in his mid-sixties, Robert Creeley remains a relentless, seemingly. tireless campaigner on the poetry touring circuit, leaving behind the comforts of home and family to barnstorm all over the country--and the world--for dozens of public performances every year. Lest anyone mistake the true nature of such a life, it is a patently demanding one, bringing far more tedium and exhaustion than glory. There are times when the wear and tear must inevitably take its toll. A few years ago, sitting at his side one evening as, just off a plane, he dutifully prepared to rise and, with all the good cheer he could summon, entertain a roomful of people he didn't know, I couldn't help asking just what it was that made him push himself so hard in what was clearly a draining, bone-wearying grind.

He replied simply, with a trace of irony but also a certain resignation, "I'm a Puritan."

Work, Care, and the Puritan Tradition of Spiritual Autobiography

I've spent all my life with a nagging sense I had somehow the responsibility of that curious fact, that is, a substantial life, like a dog, but hardly as pleasant, to be dealt with no matter one could or couldn't, wanted to or not. This must be what's thought of as Puritanism ...


Happy the man who loves what

he has and worked for it also.

("The Puritan Ethos")(2)

To consummate

the inconsummate, and make of it

the unending. Work,

work, work.

Six days of the week you shall work,

on the seventh you shall think about it

|Mary, pass the potatoes,' becomes

division of subject & object.

Work, work, work.

Get them yourself

Thought is a process of work,

joy is an issue of work.

("To Do Work is to Contradict Contradictions,

to Do Violence to Natural Violence . . .")(3)

In conversation about the persistence of themes of responsibility and employment in his work, Creeley speaks of watching itinerant men kill time in the Depression-era streets of the small town of his New England boyhood, and, in the next moment's association, recalls a well-used Yankee adage of the period, "idle hands are the devil's workshop."

One does not have to read far in Creeley's writing to encounter, albeit usually in an ironic context, some mention of the "Puritan virtues" of industry and application. One has passed over into a world of stark, self-binding imperatives; and in that world, entered a consciousness haunted by a restless compulsion to do the right thing, to be "of use" (the phrase is reiterated like a mantra--"the wandering & inexhaustible wish to be of use, somehow/ to be helpful"), (4) as if merely to be were not enough. Creeley's early poems' neurotic carefulness--of feeling, thinking, even, or especially, loving--defined the persona of the anxious troubadour swain for his generation of post-World War II American poets. The poems' powerful sincerity was all the more believable because the sociological experience they reflected--that of an intense, highly self-conscious young man manifestly out of place amidst the fake pleasantries of the mid-century Lonely Crowd--seemed so uncomfortable.

"How to care, that one does care," the poet agonized in a 1956 Black Mountain Review "Note" on the abstract expressionist painter Philip Guston. "Care, it seems, comes from several words, among them the Anglo-Saxon carn, ceary (anxiety) and the Old Saxon kara (sorrow), is it moving with care through care, that it comes to?"(5)

Carefree this voice definitely was not. In that "denseness of anxieties, and sorrows, like a nightmare world, of forms which are all exact and there,"(6) the existential Dark Wood sketched in by his nervous, introspective narrative, there was always for Creeley a service yet undone, a mile of care to go before one could think of sleeping.

Whence did all this care, this steady impoverishment of confidence, "curious |poor boy' insistences,"(7) derive?

Creeley himself, in the revealing schematic simplicities of his Autobiography (a work located solidly in that Puritan tradition of self-interpretive spiritual autobiographies which dates back to John Bunyan's Grace Abounding--"Puritans have always been great practitioners of autobiography,"(8) Creeley once remarked, citing among others Thoreau and D.H. Lawrence), attributes the restless self-demand in his makeup to "having grown up with an immense sense of my family's particular limits," i.e., in the Depression years after his father's death, when the family's drastically straitened circumstances could not be but painfully evident to him, even as a small child. It is to that time a biographer might trace the poet's instinctive identification of work and value (and also, by implication, of pain and value, as suggested in his 1967 introductory essay to Alex Trocchi's novel of sadomasochism, Thongs). Reading the Autobiography, we find it was during these years of hard times both in and out of young Robert's family that a "nagging sense" of "responsibility" for his own life took root. So, this little self-exegetical meditation would make it appear, did a sense of perpetual isolation or "displacement"; an obsessive quest for neatness and order that represented his instinctive groping for "bearings" in a world in which the self seemed forever "so at sea"; and a chronic distrust of "fiction"--that is, all those manifestations, in the self as in others, of "calculated intent," or manipulative "artifice, artfully employed."(9)

The aversion to deception, Creeley speculates, "echoes again the Puritan aura of where I grew up, but also the fact that being told the truth, as I felt it, was the only location possible to me." We learn a good deal more of the special priority given to sincerity, or care for the truth, in his life and writing, when we are then told of a pair of "crucial lies of my childhood." Both were well-meaning deceptions. When he was four, his father's death was concealed from the boy by his mother, to spare his feelings. A few years later, the true purpose of a trip to the hospital to have a dysfunctional eye removed was also concealed. He woke from anesthesia to find his eye gone. The reverberations of those two inexplicable-at-the-time, too-late fathomed "sudden losses"(10) resound through Creeley's autobiographical meditation, a work which, like much of the main body of his writing, is a minimalist's intimate chronicle of an abiding pursuit of the truth of the experiencing self.


Genius is not infrequently a matter of paradox and contradiction, of opposites unreconciled yet allowed to coexist and tensions whose resistance to simple resolution generates an unusual power. In Creeley's poetry there is often a strain between the formal impulse to order and pattern and a contradictory attitude of discovery which tends to keep structures open-ended. The opposing drives of order and discovery interacting in the field of language supply the work's ongoing energy, its motor.

Creeley has paid homage to "the quiet genius of the prosody"(11) in the verse of Louis Zukofsky, a poet who, along with Pound and Williams, is one of his principle craft masters. Fully as much as Zukofsky, Creeley is a poet so intensely concerned with and responsive to the complex ordering of sound and syntax in poetry that the moment-to-moment management of such orders can probably be said to be his main business in writing. Not surprisingly, this obsession with verbal ordering is reflected in a basic disposition also manifest in everyday life, as Creeley himself has acknowledged.

Tom Clark: In the Autobiography you admit being obsessed with maintaining order in your physical space--by, for example, emptying ashtrays over and over, picking lint off the carpet, etc. I suppose it wouldn't take a genius to relate that habit of compulsive tidiness with the practice of carefully attending to, and ordering, small, intricate verbal structures.

Robert Creeley: I remember my daughter Sarah used to ask me to quit picking up stuff off the floor. Well, that's it, you know--I can't stop. I have an absolute appetite, or need, for absolute order and neatness. Pen, my wife, notices it particularly after I come back from being away: she says, You know, when you're around, things are really a lot neater. It's not that--I mean, I don't really worry about what anyone does. It's almost that the fact that they muck things up apparently gives me something to do.

TC: Even the seemingly impeccable innkeepers, here, for instance?

Creeley: For sure. Like, say, the bed: I like to have the bed fixed just so, and things in the room just in order. If room service didn't do it, I would have done it. Just so it's in order. And that way I'm kept busy, also.

TC: The apparent chaos of contemporary life thus turning into endless interesting opportunity to straighten things out?

Creeley: For sure. It's like Robert Duncan said, urban living provides an environment of constant attention and challenge. In the city, there's so much more that you can call to order!

Getting Away from the Plan

TC: Some might relate an obsessive desire for order with a way of living in which everything proceeds according to plan. But hasn't the whole theme of plan or intention been a matter of some tension for you, at least insofar as it comes over into the preoccupations of the writing.?

Creeley: That's one thing that comes in, I think, again and again, a sense of being wary of plans; yes, a distrust of them. I mean to say that plans can be, certainly, locating, and at times useful--but that in my so-called life as I've experienced it, the plans were almost without exception ridiculous. They had nothing to do with what happened. There is the poem that says it . . . "Tonight let me go at last out/ of whatever mind I think to/ have, and all the habits of it.(12)

The Attitude of Discovery: Following the Divining Rod

The twentieth-century aesthetician Theodor Adorno has characterized the attitude of the artist as less willful than watchful and alert--ready to follow "the divining rod in the direction in which it is being pulled." The practice of Creeley, who insistently "loses himself" into the autonomy of his poem's unfolding, exemplifies Adorno's conjecture on this point: "The redeeming feature of genius is its subservience to a work of art. The ingenious is a dialectical knot signifying the presence of the unstencilled, the unrepeated, the free--in the midst of a sense of necessity."(13)

"I would mistake my own experience of poetry if I were to propose it as something merely intentional," Creeley confided in a 1967 talk, "and what men may imagine, either as worlds or poems, is not simply a purpose either may satisfy."(14) And a few years before that, in a brief statement for the Times Literary Supplement on his approach to poetry he commented that he was "more interested, at present, in what is given to me to write apart from what I might intend. I have never explicitly known--before writing--what it was that I would say. For myself, articulation is the intelligent ability to recognize the experience of what is so given."(15)

No text better elucidates the stakes, and the rewards, of Creeley's fateful creative gamble--his following of the divining rod of "the given"--than the triumphant poem which crowns that middle phase of his work, "The Finger."

... I was told, it was known to me, my fate could be timeless. Again and again I was to get it right, the story I myself knew only the way of, but the purpose of it had one, was not mine. And the power to tell is glory ... (16)

Trials of the Individuation Process: Everything Moves In

What is it that/ is finally so helpless/ different, despairs of its own.1 statement,

wants to/ turn away, endlessly/ to turn away.

("For Love")(17)

The sense of myself/ separate.

("The Pool")(18)

How can I die alone. Where will I be then who am now alone.

("The Door")(19)

"Self-imprisoned paranoids":(20) this is how Creeley has characterized extreme cases of the Puritan temperament. In much of his own early poetry, the experiencing subject at the center of the action seems, if not sequestered in paranoia, almost predictably "sorry for itself/ lonely generally/ unhappy in its/ circumstances" ("There Is").(21) Puritan self-torment, the poet has written, may achieve a highly sophisticated formality that is the ultimate epistemological invention of a culture responsible for the proposition "that pain was perhaps the most formal means society had evolved for the experience of itself."(22) For poetry-reading audiences with ears still tuned to the complacent rhetorical sound of Fifties mainstream verse, the experience of hearing Creeley read his tense, biting lyrics "I Know a Man," "The Immoral Proposition," "The Warning," "The Whip" -- his anxious suspension of breath etched into each line-ending pause with sharp, surprising acerbity, the whipsaw cutting edge of a bitter irony that lacerated the self like thongs going into flesh--such a statement would have been emphatically confirmed by the poet's performance.

Talking of early poems such as "I Know a Man"--a painful staging of the trials of the individuation process revealing the isolation of the compulsive speaker who, neither content to remain mute in the experience of his internalized anguish nor able to articulate it, has lost track of that common world to which his words supposedly point--Creeley now speaks of the dangers of "the generalization of the insistent diminution of any outside." Bound in his subjective pathos of alienation (which is only incompletely masked beneath the ironically distancing "hipness" of tone) the unhappy speaker has lost all real contact with the outside, that commonly experienced world in which discourse is periodically forced to give way to solid realities like metal and concrete, as errant vehicles crash on highways, etc.

The famous minimalism and claustrophobia of Creeley's early poetry, products of a persistent generalization or abstraction of the everyday landscape of life, indeed steadily diminish substantive presence in favor of a hypertrophic flow of speech and thought that becomes almost figurative, reducing the dimensions of a world down to those of a solitary voice. "With the denial of any collective," as the poet now comments in retrospect on his own former procedures, "everything moves in, so the inside becomes the whole scene."


all the darkness is

an utter blackness,

a pit of fear,

a stench ...

("A Form of Women")(23)

TC: "Someone who has so often sent people up the wall with frustrated, impotent anger,"(24) you term yourself at one point in the Autobiography. Elsewhere in an interview you've said, "I want it all, and so I tend at times understandably to exhaust my friends--keep pushing, pushing, pushing... I can't let anything stop until it's literally exhaustion."(25) The point of exhaustion is the point of crisis, in some of your poems. In fact by the poems of the early Sixties, that exacerbating, self-tormenting voice in them seems to be coming to some kind of crisis of feeling altogether--especially, say, in the poems from New Mexico, like "Anger," where the mimesis of emotional pain is so strong.

Creeley: Yes; poems like "One Way," "Some Afternoon," "Anger"--that was 1964-represent for me the apex of trying to write from inside the emotion.

In the three poems Creeley cites, that insistent engine of self-flaying subjectivity which has driven his work can be seen reaching the brink of exhaustion. Here subjectivity is experienced not as existential freedom but as an oppressive captivity. It is as if the experiencing subject were trapped inside something and unable to get out; and of course that something is nothing other than itself.

At this point the speaker of Creeley's poetry seems to have drifted--or exploded, out of sheer irritation--completely out of reach of any familiar or common life. The threat of violence in the verse of this poet who had once warned ominously that for the sake of love he might split open his lover's head "and put/ a candle in/ behind the eyes"(26) now reveals itself as a product of the ultimate Puritan introjection: "All you say you want/ to do to yourself you do/ to someone else as yourself." Swollen with resentments ("convulsively darkening/ as if life were black"), caught in the blind baffles of stymied relationship and exhausted subjectivity, the self experiences the full pathos of its monocularity, its fated limitation to a condition of sight without perspective ("See me./ It is the cry/ I hear all/ my life, my own/ voice, my/ eye locked in self sight"), and in the distortion and obscurity of the moment makes out only a world narrowed to the dimensions of "a hole/ for anger."(27)

It is black.

It is an open

hole of horror, of

nothing as if not

enough there is

nothing. A pit--

which he recognizes,

familiar, sees

the use in, a hole

for anger and

fills it

with himself...


The image recalls Celine's Nord, in which the fall of the Third Reich is figured, with the noir-comic delirium in which that writer specialized, by the fatal impression of persons inside-heaps of offal. Interpreting his own poem in conversation, Creeley identifies the image as "a kind of perverse well of shit--a deep hole." A key to its source, perhaps, lies in a childhood event he now recalls with wry amusement. "We had a cesspool out behind the house, at this now unutilized farm in which we still lived after my father's death, that I actually fell into once. I can't remember it, but was told. Apparently I was in a classic sailor's suit, fell in, and came out half-darkened."

D.H. Lawrence and the Trials of the Individuation Process

In the beginning was this self,

perhaps, without the figure,

without consciousness of self

or figure or evening. In the

beginning was this self only,

alone and unwanted by others.

("Poem for D.H. Lawrence")(29)

TC: The theme of crisis in feeling--sexual tension, intense sensibility, exacerbated consciousness--reminds me again of the various comments you've made on Puritanism and its effects upon writing. I was interested by the writers you've spoken of as "Puritan" in relation to a strong engagement with autobiography: Camus, who, you've noted, first drafted The Stranger with an "I" that was patently himself (you've also said you think of existentialism as a decidedly Puritan stance), Dahlberg, Thoreau, Lawrence. As antecedent to your own practice, Lawrence, whom I know you read intensely as a young man--"Poem for D. H. Lawrence" is one of your very earliest published poems, evidently from the 1940s--seems particularly apt. You appear to have kept up an interest in him; I was struck lately by a comment you made in a fairly recent article about his seemingly prescient power of intuition in writing, a power that, as you put it, "can |see' as feeling, that knows it knows."(30) That sounds close to the "inside" way of knowing which in your poem "The Company" you identify as the human--an echoing, resonant inside-sense that "knows it knows."(31) I wonder if you're likewise able to relate the internalized struggle in your early work, the narrative of terrors of the individuation process, with what you get in Lawrence?

Creeley: It's interesting, just two weeks ago, doing readings in England, I was taken to see Lawrence's house in Nottingham. That was fantastic. From his bedroom, in this little row house, you look right down this valley, toward where the farm was. It is glorious--as he says, the view most dear to his heart. It must have been immensely appealing, and annealing, to him, as a bright kid, with his edges so raw. In his crisis, the individuation process has only itself to deal with, which is in all respects at least simpler than would be the case now, because then at least the particulars of the individual could still stay specific. Even if you did not yet know who you were, you were at least still yourself, specifically. But by the time we get to this moment, the sheer generalization of the particulars of the individual has become almost ridiculous. Mother Nature is not only fooled, and ignored, but almost battered.

TC: Apropos of Lawrence (or in spite of him, I guess), it's been argued that there's little point considering particular differences between individual men, males, when as a gender, in general, they comprise the planet's biggest problem.

Creeley: Well, Lawrence's example certainly speaks to us most clearly in terms of the present dilemma of men, in the definition they have. Dying of and from their own violence, how do males now find a place in a common world of men and women? My discontent with so much of the feminist proposal comes at this point--simply that it won't recognize the functioning substantive fact of a male in a society which males equally, I presume, would like to alter.

The Human as Scale

What transcendentalism praised in creative subjectivity is the subject's

unconscious imprisonment in itself. Its every objective thought leaves the

subject immersed like an armored beast in the shell it tries in vain to shed; the

only difference is that to such animals it did not occur to brag of their captivity

as freedom.

(Theodor Adorno, "Subject and Object")(32)

The ache of separation from a common life inscribed in Creeley's early poetry assumes an almost allegorical force. Beneath the troubled lyric surface of the verse, contrary to its steady display of an extremely "contemporary" idiom, there runs the thread of a second, much older story, a fable of the original divorce of subject from object, self from other, in mankind's archaic far from a primal world of wholeness.

The ache is most tangible precisely in those poems in which the image of the singularity of the subject is most arresting. One thinks of "The Hill," harsh meditation on "what it was had once turned me backwards,/ and made my head into/ a cruel instrument."(33) Or of "For Love," bitter anatomization of a swollen, exposed subjectivity in its "tedium,/ despair, a painful/ sense of isolation and/ whimsical if pompous/ self-regard."(34) Perhaps the starkest reduction of the formula comes in "For a Friend": "Himself alone is dominant/ in a world of no one else."(35) One recalls Adorno's figure of "abstract selfness in extremis"--"that grinding of the teeth which says nothing but I, I, I," manifesting "the same nothingness that the self becomes in death."(36) Refusing social mediation, the insistent singularity of Creeley's "I" reflected a human collective only as its own negation, as in a poem aptly titled "The End": "When I know what people think of me/ I am plunged into my loneliness ... A feeling like being choked/ enters my throat."(37)

By the mid-1960s the poet's uneasy relation with subjectivity had reached a point of exhaustion; in the late 1960s and early 1970s he began to explore new serial modalities in both verse and prose. Making what appears to have been a conscious effort first to relieve, then eventually to reverse, the "self-imprisoned paranoid" attitude of Puritan introversion which had produced the brilliant ordeal of his early work (while also, certainly, responding to the aesthetic climate of a period when the inclination to formal experiment and a "pop"-conscious relaxation of attitudes could go hand in hand), he expanded the ground of his writing to include random, accidental, notational, and programmatic elements. The results can be seen in Pieces, In London, Thirty Things, and Hello (poetry); and A Day Book, Presences, and Mabel: A Story (prose).

While the adventure and struggle of the experiencing subject, with its "Puritan" investment in interior spiritual history, remained an important theme, across the bulkheads of the still isolated yet now much less rigid "I" of Creeley's writing there flooded a new awareness of the human commonalty of all experience. And the drive toward expression of this awareness largely determined the direction of that writing thereafter.

Creeley himself typically characterizes his own shift in attitude in formal terms, speaking of it as a matter of "measure" or "scale." If the singular had once been his measure, the new index or reference was its opposite--the human, the common "So There," a 1975 poem of decisive departure, executes the casual, notational "tracking" of a life, with the experiencing subject and his world achieving an unprecedented degree of reconciliation. The poem is evidence Creeley's basic measure had changed, with some sacrifice in tension but also a new amplitude of feeling.

Experiences people have in common, as opposed to in subjective isolation, have preoccupied Creeley as a writer for the last two decades. His later poems speak of life's basic and immediate pains, needs, and pleasures: birth and death, the aging process, distance, time passing, regret, sadness, loss and the "ridiculous,/ simple happinesses" that come with all living. "Tangible, they tell/ the reassurances, the comforts,/ of being human" ("Love").(38)

The world was now to be engaged on the human scale, the singular intelligence henceforth surrendering its central location in the emotional scheme to that which in the important late poem "The Company" Creeley would call "some common places of feeling."(39) From the everyday-life-spaced prose of A Day Book (written in 1968-1969) through the New Directions poetry collections of the late 1970s and early 1980s to recent verse chapbooks like 1991's The Old Days, the invocation of such terms as human, common, people, and home accumulates an elemental weight in Creeley's increasingly "basic" discourse. Without denying the burdensome aspects of experience's familiar cargo of the years, the poet now stresses its substantial power to ground and reassure.

Will it be that someday we come to some relation with those who make up our

condition, humans, that will not argue their histories as all that they depend on

for relation--or else, more accurately, that what they do is more relevant to all

their lives, one by one or all in all, than what they didn't. I feel such trust in

life, once I stop all that previous qualification--just that I know I'm alive, and

witness it with such pleasure in others, we are here--I'm happy, in the most

simplistic of sense. I've thought a lot, like they say, but more than that I've

not found.

(A Day Book)(40) These retroactive small instances of feeling reach out for a common ground in the wet first rain of a faded winter. Along the grey iced sidewalk revealed piles of dogshit, papers, bits of old clothing, are the human pledges, call them, "We are here and have been all the time."

("First Rain")(41)

Some people you just

know and recognize,

whether a need or fact,

a disposition at that

moment is placed,

you're home, a light

is in that simple

window forever--As if

people had otherwise always

to be introduced, told

you're ok--But here

you're home, so longed

for, so curiously

without question found


In coming to speak of these developments in his work, the poet has raised the interesting parallel of Stendhal, a writer who had formed part of his earliest serious reading experience. In a recent letter, for example, he recalls the pleasures of his college-age reading experience of classic European narrative writers of the nineteenth century. "I can see why someone as Stendhal, or Dostoyevsky, for that matter, were then so attractive to me--just that with them the world stayed unremittingly literal and was in no way a convenience for [anyone's] puerile presumptions."(43) And there is a remarkable passage of the Autobiography in which Creeley movingly cites the "literalist" Stendhal as yardstick of his new common or human measure:

... The writer who most delighted and saved me was Stendhal ... His extraordinary

self-perception--at least the person he so presents--is very attractive.

His characters are seen with such intimate clarity and yet they are as

objective as statistics or phone numbers. Just so, there is a shot in a Fellini

film taken from a helicopter flying over a city. The people, sunning on the

roofs, look up, waving, and one sees them from the perspective of the pilot,

specific, yet passing and painfully small.

As a parallel instance of sorts, I recall one night in Placitas, New Mexico.

Restless, I had stepped just outside the door of our living room into a small

courtyard. It must have been fall because there was a sharp odor of burning

pinon in the air, and it was one of those magnificent, sharp, dry, immensely

clear and star-filled nights. Just back of me in the room there was a bleak

argument going on, the rehearsal of a very painful and blocked sense of

relation, a classic human debate which can never end except in exhaustion. But

outside, less than ten feet away, was such a vast and indifferent human place,

so indifferent to those almost insectlike human flailings I'd left. About a mile

distant, up into the canyon, there was a cave which dated human habitation

here some thirty thousand years into the past. All around us were the fossils

from a sea which had been here long before that, fish, shells, timeless. The

Hopi say, "First came the Navajo, and then the white man." We are a curious


But it's not a diminution of humanness I wish to make, rather a scale for its

diverse presence. In all of Stendhal's work there is a lovely measure in such

sense, of the significance of actions and of persons, neither sneering nor

enlarging. All that would matter to me, finally, as a writer, is that the scale and

the place of our common living be recognized, that the mundane in that simple

emphasis be acknowledged.(44)


The source for all Creeley quotations not footnoted is from conversations with the author, February 1991 to March 1992. (1.) Robert Creeley, Autobiography (New York: Hanuman Books, 1990), 7. (2.) Robert Creeley, The Collected Poems (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1982), 414. (3.) Ibid., 77. (4.) "For Rainer Gerhardt," The Collected Poems, 114. (5.) Robert Creeley, The Collected Essays (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1989), 383. (6.) Ibid., 383. (7.) Autobiography, 18. (8.) The Collected Essays, 562. (9.) Autobiography, 7, 19, 26, 81, 92. (10.) Ibid., 28, 92-93. (11.) Louis Zukofsky, Complete Short Poetry (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), 1. (12.) "The Mountains in the Desert," The Collected Poems, 285. (13.) Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1984), 168, 245. (14.) The Collected Essays, p. 499. (15.) Ibid., 487. (16.) The Collected Poems, 384, 385. (17.) Ibid., 257. (18.) Ibid., 239. (19.) Ibid., 201. (20.) The Collected Essays, 283. (21.) The Collected Poems, 289. (22.) The Collected Essays, 283. (23.) The Collected Poems, 352. (24.) Autobiography, 91. (25.) Robert Creeley, Contexts of Poetry: Interviews 1961-1971, edited by Donald Allen (Bolinas, CA: Four Seasons Foundation, 1973), 147. (26.) "The Warning," The Collected Poems, 140. (27.) The Collected Poems, 308-309. (28.) Ibid., 306. (29.) Ibid., 7. (30.) The Collected Essays, 149. (31.) Robert Creeley, Selected Poems (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991), 319. (32.) The Essential Frankfurt School Reader, edited by Andrew Arato and Eike Gebhardt (New York: Continuum, 1987), 504. (33.) The Collected Poems, 202. (34.) Ibid., 257. (35.) Ibid., 188. (36.) Theodor W. Adorno, The Jargon of Authenticity (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1973), 152. (37.) The Collected Poems, 133. (38.) Selected Poems, 233. (39.) Ibid., 319. (40.) Robert Creeley, The Collected Prose (New York: Marion Boyars, 1984), 286. (41.) Robert Creeley, Mirrors (New York: New Directions, 1983), 3. (42.) Robert Creeley, The Old Days (Tarzana, CA: Ambrosia Press, 1991), 28. (43.) Robert Creeley, letter to author, June 14, 1991. (44.) Autobiography, 52-55.
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Author:Clark, Tom
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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