Helen Vendler: In Memoriam

As a young poet, I secretly dreamed of one day being introduced by Stephen Yenser and reviewed (even panned) by Helen Vendler. I will have to find a new dream.

I don’t recall when I first encountered Vendler’s poetic critique—I would guess it was in grad school, while indulging my passion for Yeats. She was certainly the most astute reader of Yeats that I have ever encountered—and that’s saying something. What I remember most, though, is checking out The Given and the Made from the Oakland library a few years later. In that book, she focused on four poets who would seem to have very little in common—Berryman, Lowell, Graham, and Dove. Though the four sections of the book were distinct, they were tied together by a simple premise: great art lies at the intersection of circumstance and genius. In other words, when life gives you lemons, make lemonade—or rather, a triple-layer lemon-chiffon wedding cake. On some level, I found this theory disquieting: my background was exceptionally unexceptional. How could I make something memorable when I was given nothing memorable to work with? 

As for her subjects, I had of course studied Berryman in school, though I ultimately found his alter-ego Mr. Bones problematic to say the least. I had also encountered Lowell in school, but that barely scratched the surface; I would later immerse myself in his work—most notably, The Mills of the Kavanaughs and Lord Weary’s Castle—and remain to this day a fervent devotee. Graham? Well, not even Vendler could raise her in my esteem, though I appreciated the explication. On the other hand, she sparked my interest in Rita Dove, whose work I’d had little exposure to previously. A later book, Soul Says, cast a wider net, analyzing poets I admired, such as Ammons, Merrill, Dave Smith, and Heaney, along with others I have never quite grown to appreciate. 

But what I’ve always appreciated about Vendler was that she approached every text on its own terms, rather then through the lens of any particular critical theory. Structuralism, deconstruction, feminism, formalism, psychoanalysis, etc.—they all seemed to choose their subjects to fit their intended conclusions. Indeed, many literary critiques were inseparable from the school of thought they espoused. Vendler, on the other hand, is not synonymous with any school. She was simply an attentive (I don’t think she would’ve accepted the term “close”) reader. 

While many lit crit schools were subtly or overtly political, she seemed to have no overarching agenda (other than to promote the greater appreciation of poetry). Perhaps that’s why she could espouse a position that would seem to flout current conventions and themes. Her scathing review of Rita Dove’s Penguin Anthology of Twentieth-Century American Poetry was the stuff of legend (as was Dove’s response). She faulted Dove for prioritizing inclusiveness over critical consensus. Nowadays, her stance—essentially dismissing efforts to promote diversity and equity—would seem to align with the “anti-woke” rhetoric of certain far-right politicians. I doubt many university academics would be so bold in print, regardless of how they may feel in private.

Nonetheless, her argument—as always—was hard to disagree with, assuming you did not have a vested interest in doing so. When I look at that anthology today, I can’t help but side with Vendler. Though it contains many poets who are well worth reading, many are simply not in the same league as others. And of course, in devoting pages to those poets, Dove gave short shrift to those heavy-hitters. 

I have a book on my shelf called something like Silver Poets of the 17th Century. It gathers together several poets who are wonderful but not necessarily “Great.” That’s what Dove really needed to create—an anthology of poets who may well be considered important one day, but who still have their best work ahead of them.

In reading Vendler’s obituary, I was amused by a few intersections I did not previously realize. She was born a Hennessy in Boston. I have Hennessy clan in the family, and distant Irish relatives in Boston (not that I’m suggesting any relation—Hennessy folk are as common as clover). I wonder how much that Irish Catholic education—ruler on the knuckles if you misremember your catechism—influenced her approach to poetry, which on the one hand seemed to presume a set of sacred laws or expectations that needed to be upheld, and on the other hand, assumed that laypeople could not understand the holy word directly, but needed a priest to act as mediator. She also taught, however briefly, at my alma mater, Cornell. She also lived out the last of her years not far from me, in Laguna Niguel, a short drive (traffic permitting) from LA. 

Vendler wrote carefully about poetry—because she cared about poetry. I don’t think anyone would deny that the proliferation—the democratization—of poetry is overall a positive development. Poetry is like love—there is never enough. Still, we need someone like Vendler to thrust the Haw Lantern in the face of each poet’s work and either nod approvingly or intone, “No, not you.”