Kunst wird Kritik, "art is becoming criticism," as the devil notes in Mann's Doctor Faustus. Having been taught to explicate, the young poets were explicating for themselves their own poems in the process of writing them. They composed with the same kind and intensity of "reading" that their readers would in turn bring to bear. Wordsworth used to argue that every great poet must create the taste by which he is to be enjoyed, but Lowell, Berryman, Nemerov, and many another starting out were trying to create great poems to fit a taste that already existed. To the extent that they succeeded, recognition came instantly. This agreement between the producers and consumers of a style is a normal feature of the academic in art. As this state of affairs continued into the 1950s, the New Criticism established itself more firmly as an academic orthodoxy, and the desire to break with it became more intense.
from Chapter 5: "The Poetry of Critical Intelligence"
I picked up this behemoth of opinionated criticism from a used book shop because I enjoyed what he had to say about John Ashbery. David Perkins is certainly well-rounded in 20th century poetry. Though his main argument--that many poets struggled to break free of the New Critics--is intriguing, his argument is seriously undermined when Perkins can't seem to find any poets who broke free of the ivory tower of New Criticism worth reading:
Emotionally Spicer was self-thwarting and wounded; many of his poems quarrel with God and many others with lovers or with love. Because of their intellectuality and bitterness, his poems are rebarbative.
[Michael McClure] is a minor talent choked in pretensions.
Since I make a large claim for Duncan, I should acknowledge plainly that he can and often does write horribly. Many passages are hopelessly vague, inert, rhetorical, empty, or cliched...Readers who care about restraint, good taste, and the like have no business reading Duncan (or many contemporary poets), for such conceptions have no more relevance for him than they would for a bonfire.
[Merrill] Moore could compose two sonnets while waiting for a traffic light to change. Such facility was naturally unpromising, but a few of Moore's sonnets are readable.
I remarked in connection with the Cantos, something must motivate us to continue reading, and if it is not an emerging sense of a whole, meaningful experience, it can only be the delight we have from moment to moment. In this aspect Paterson fails in a way that matters seriously. From page to page there is much dull or even bad writing...Readers of the poem who consult their own feelings as they read, rather than the arguments of specialist defenders, will probably find that if they go on to the end, the cause of conscience rather than interest or pleasure.
And let's pause a moment right here with Perkins' take on William Carlos Williams' Paterson. Throughout the book, poets cite Paterson as an inspiration, yet Perkins dismisses those poets as well. However, he continually returns to Pound's Cantos as a literary feat which must be read and wrestled by serious students of modern poetry. Allow me to quote Perkins on answering a critical question raised by readers approaching Cantos:
How good are the Cantos as a whole? Or since evaluation is always personal, how much do I admire and enjoy them? Huge indictments can be brought against them. Pound's Fascist sympathies are and will remain troubling for as long as mankind remembers what Fascism was. His anti-Semitism is obvious as a method of presentation, ideogramic thinking, as the poem exemplifies it, is undisciplined and self-indulgent. In many places there is a ludicrous disproportion between the importance of the ideas, in Pound's view, and his unclear, distracting articulation of them. We cannot argue that such intellectual and moral offenses are irrelevant to the poem, for they pervade the poem, influencing subject matter, intention, and form. And in long stretches the Cantos are boring.
Got that, Gentle Reader? What is Perkins' evaluation? Well obviously...
Nevertheless, I admire the Cantos, and not only for the lyric passages everyone responds to. Pound's sense of the importance of texture justifies itself, for, however maddeningly difficult the texture of the Cantos may be, it rewards by brilliant effects that could be obtained in no other way. And it stays fresh. Passages can be read over and over with pleasure, for they summon creativity and always disclose new interrelations and possibilities of meaning.
What? Sure he's a boring anti-Semitic Fascist--but his writing is maddingly "fresh."
So is this leviathan of personal opinion worth reading? Sure--but be aware it's limited in scope and subjective in analysis. Perkins has pet poets (Eliot, Pound, Lowell, Ashbery, James Merrill) and uses them as a yardstick to evaluate the worth of other poets. There's interesting takes, but practically the entire book is a personal rant. Nevertheless, it provides insight into the convoluted and checkered history of poetry in the 21st century.