The baser side of literature and life."
Byron, Don Juan, X: 14: 1-2
Sincerity's no guarantee
Of art--of poetry least of all.
Sincerity's what the confessor hears,
It's what the nurse and medic see,
Or worse. I sometimes feel
The greatest sincerity's what we read
On restroom walls:
"I want to . . ." "Call me . . ."
"Whoever reads this is a queer . . ."
Call it ignorance; call it rage,
The major symptom of our age;
Call it, if you will, sheer lust
Perverted and fertilized by disgust,
It shows the basest need
Constrained by fear, and thus
It is sincere, even when in part
Unconscious.
But . . . art?
Anonymous, it trumpets need
While it evades responsibility,
Through secrecy in public,
As lawyers cheat in private,
Yet magnify the law:
"The Law exists apart."
"The Law exacts awe."
"Law does not swerve."
(Conversely, like graffiti,
Like all means which have been
Self-elevated into ends,
The law remains erect
Long after those means it was meant to serve
Are not.
So law does not respect
The sticky issues of the human heart,
Which usually turn out to be,
On close examination, rather raw--
The raw material, in fact, of art.)
True practitioners and those who know,
On the other hand, elaborate from need,
But know that need is not enough
Without the skill to take the rough
And mold and change and make it flow
Into some stubborn form or passing wave
That startles while it captivates,
Releasing us as it enslaves.
But even so,
Like law, it's a necessity--
I mean art merely,
Not sincerity.
It helps us live with one another
And with ourselves--if not like brothers,
At least in a natural sort of order
While we remain, oh so sincerely,
Selfish, unloving, cowardly.
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