16. No Ideas but in Things: The Power of Images

Dumb Writing and New Ideas

[Previously]

(based upon a possibly apocryphal story)

The following story will prepare us for upcoming posts on the importance of description:

A doctor looks out his young patient's bedroom window. The rain has stopped. Across the way, he sees a barn. The weathered boards are gray like the sky in places, with some areas of peeling paint, palimpsests in shades of red, glimpses of better days. Near the barn door, some chickens peck at the ground.

Later, in the parlor, the mantle clock ticks slowly. The patient’s family speaks in low tones. When he exits the house, the doctor stands on the porch a moment, pulls out a prescription pad, and jots a few notes. He folds the paper and puts it in his breast pocket.

Later, sitting at his desk, the doctor unfolds the piece of paper and reads—just some scratchings about the rain, the yard. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it, if anything. It’s just a habit. He notices things. He writes them down. Sometimes, something leads to something else.

Though trained in medicine, the doctor is also a poet. In some ways, he thinks poets and doctors are one and the same. Both are expected to have answers. Both are called upon to say things when there is nothing left to say. For the doctor, that’s the most interesting part, those moments when language fails utterly. This is when he feels its power.

He stares at the creased paper, makes some changes. He will not write of the grieving, stricken family. There will be no elegy, no requiem, no operatic lament about a life cut short, no carpe diem, no curse of Job.

Instead, he writes what he saw in the yard, a wheelbarrow, some chickens, some rainwater, and says little else. This poem will be included in a book called Spring and All. Eventually, the title of the poem will change from the number "XXII" to “The Red Wheelbarrow” and will become the doctor’s most famous work; in fact, it will become one of the most famous poems ever written. But the doctor doesn’t know this yet.

Many are confounded by this poem. How is that a poem? the first-year English students ask. There are no capital letters, no commas. It doesn’t even rhyme. There are no literary allusions, no metaphorical devices. The language is dull and everyday. The poem pays no attention to literary form or tradition. It’s just a sentence, and an ordinary one at that.

When asked what the poem might mean, the students are stumped. They talk vaguely about farms and work and often either stop there or revert to free association: The wheelbarrow represents struggle . . . or some such thing. When they are being honest, some students say the poem seems kind of dumb. (No offense, they'll add.) It reminds some students of abstract painting. Random. Incomprehensible.

I could do that, they say.

Well, then why didn’t you?

In another poem, the doctor uses the phrase, “no ideas but in things.” The professor writes this phrase on the chalkboard next to the wheelbarrow poem. Oh great, the students say. Now we have two things that make no sense. They look at their watches. They tap their pens on their notebooks. Some shut down, hopeless and resigned. (I’ll never use this!) A few, the front-row types (it’s always the front-row types), will proceed, dutifully writing down their observations.

After a while, the professor asks what the students wrote, and he’s met with silence. The students pretend to be in deep contemplation, desperately hoping not to be called upon. The professor smiles and waits them out. It’s a game of chicken, one he usually wins. The silence becomes overwhelming. Finally, unable to stand any more of it, someone in the front speaks up:

“I thought the poem was about the wheelbarrow, but now I see it isn’t.”

“What do you mean?” someone behind her says. “It’s called ‘The Red Wheelbarrow,’ isn’t it? And there’s the wheelbarrow right there in the poem.”

“But it’s just there. The poem doesn’t do anything with it. It’s just red.”

“The wheelbarrow isn’t just red,” another front-row student says. “It’s also glazed with rainwater.”

“Okay. It’s red and glazed, but it’s still not about the wheelbarrow.”

“Then how come ‘so much depends upon’ it?” says the arguing student.

“So much what?” a student from the back asks, clearly irked by this whole thing.

“Beats me,” says the arguing student. “I guess the poet forgot to mention that. I give it a C-plus.”

“Maybe . . .” a middle-row student who is usually quiet adds, “maybe the what doesn’t matter. The poet is just giving advice.”

“What kind of advice?” the professor asks.

“About ideas or writing poems, I don’t know. He’s a doctor, right? Maybe he’s writing our prescription!”

Everyone laughs.

The professor is jolted by this comment. “You may be onto something,” he says. Even though the student meant it as a joke, it feels right. Dead on, in fact. The professor wonders why he never thought of it.

Near the end of class, the professor asks, “Why do you think I showed you this poem?”

A few students take a stab at it but confess they don’t know.

“Well, I want you to write like that,” the professor says, “because so much depends upon it.”

After class, as the students file out, the professor tears a piece of paper from his notebook. He pictures a prescription pad. He writes in his illegible, you-should-have-been-a-doctor, handwriting:

Prescription Form

Condition: A loss for words

Indications: Notice stuff. Write it down. Call me in the morning.

Warnings: Do not mix this prescription with introductions or thesis statements. Mixing with topic sentences may compromise effectiveness. Use transitions with care and only after consulting your physician. Combining this prescription with conclusions could have serious side effects, including a desire to argue or an overwhelming urge to persuade, sometimes resulting in persistent delusions that you are completely right and others are completely wrong. A compulsion to ignore contradictory evidence may follow.

The professor folds the piece of paper and puts it in his pocket. He will read it again after he arrives home. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it, if anything. It’s just a habit. He notices things. He writes them down. Sometimes, something leads to something else.

Notes

Here is Williams reading the poem.

Next, we’ll discuss cricket, false peaks, and the benefits of switching disciplines.