Poets Shifted Focus from Art Description to Personal Appreciation.

A shift in focus is evident in the evolution of ekphrasis, with poets increasingly focusing on personal appreciation over descriptive art analysis.

A thought-provoking riddle I enjoy sharing: What embodies a quintessential example? The "Ode on a Grecian Urn" by Keats stands out as an iconic representation of ekphrasis. Its frequent citation has likely altered the Greek term's connotation, imbuing it with immense semantic weight. Initially, ekphrasis encompassed various forms of description, but its usage has narrowed to primarily describing artwork.

Linguists identify this shift as an example of narrowing in their field, where the focus narrows from describing art to appreciating it personally. Philologist Leo Spitzer's 1955 essay on odes introduced the term "ekphrasis," which refers specifically to poetic descriptions of visual artworks. Interestingly, English already has a word for general description, making ekphrasis a distinct concept. Rilke's "Archaic Torso of Apollo" is often cited alongside Keats' "Grecian Urn" and Auden's "Musée des Beaux Arts" as exemplary poems that illustrate this poetic technique. These classic works have had a lasting impact on the genre, casting long shadows in their wake.

The three poems exhibit an intriguing characteristic: the absence of explicit self-reference. In "Ode to a Nightingale", however, the speaker's introspection is palpable ("Do I wake or sleep?"). Conversely, the voice in "Ode on a Grecian Urn" remains abstract and representative, embodying collective humanity through pronouns like "our" and "ye". The opening line of "Apollo" begins with a plural "We" ("Wir"), while its closing declaration can be interpreted as self-directed but starts with a singular "You" ("Du"). Interestingly, Auden's "Musée" eschews first-person pronouns altogether.

The act of writing about art can lead to detachment from one's own experiences but it's not a necessity. This historical circumstance has led me to link the concept of selflessness with ekphrasis: a literary mode that deliberately omits personal pronouns, as if an objective observer were narrating. The faceless voice behind museum exhibit descriptions is a prime example.

The three poems exh i b i t an i ntriguing characteristic: the absence of explicit self-reference. In "Ode to a Nightingale", however, the speaker's introspection is palpable ("Do I wake or sleep?"). Conversely, the voice in "Ode on a Grecian Urn" remains abstract and representative, embodying collective humanity through pronouns like "our" and "ye". The opening line of "Apollo" begins with a plural "We" ("Wir"), while its closing declaration can be interpreted as self-directed but starts with a singular "You" ("Du"). Interestingly, Auden's "Musée" eschews first-person pronouns altogether.

The act of wr i t i ng about art can lead to detachment from one's own experiences but it's not a necessity. This historical circumstance has led me to link the concept of selflessness with ekphrasis: a literary mode that deliberately omits personal pronouns, as if an objective observer were narrating. The faceless voice behind museum exhibit descriptions is a prime example.

In contrast to earlier forms, contemporary ekphrasis prioritizes the poet's inner world. This shift in focus imbues descriptions with a distinct, subjective perspective. The emotional resonance of these poems rivals that of Keats or Rilke, yet their impact is more visceral and intimate, bordering on confessional.

Mary Helen Callier's poem "The Battle of San Romano" from her debut collection "When the Horses" is a thought-provoking work with multiple references to the self. The poem starts by blurring the lines between art and personal experience, as seen in the opening line: "When I think about the hay, I think about what grew beside it." This ambiguity raises questions about whether the speaker's memories are triggered by the painting or vice versa. The poem's five stanzas weave a complex narrative that challenges the reader to distinguish between reality and representation.

The second stanza lists what she’s not “drawn to” in the piece — “not the chaos of the foreground,” “not that distorted cipher of bodies,” “not the lances.” After a break, she adds, “It’s not the horse, lying loosed from God/that intrigues me.” (The denial feels Freudian; it’s such an intriguing image, and looking at the painting I’m unsure which horse she means.) Not until we’re midway through the third stanza do we learn what does compel her: “the hare sprinting off,” seemingly minor. Then the fourth stanza uses its I for irreverent speculation: “I bet his friends had said: Damnit, Paolo/be plain. Your hare is too big.”

The poet's movement through the poem is akin to a dynamic leap, as if our gaze is being pulled around her eyes, much like we navigate a visual landscape. The emphasis on background elements creates an unbalanced feel, leaving the poem precariously poised, reminiscent of an egg teetering on a polished marble surface. Meanwhile, Callier's approach subtly asserts ownership, suggesting that this Uccello belongs to her, without making any grand claims about its universal significance.

I n contrast to earlier forms, contemporary ekphrasis prioritizes the poet's inner world. This shift in focus imbues descriptions with a distinct, subjective perspective. The emotional resonance of these poems rivals that of Keats or Rilke, yet their impact is more visceral and intimate, bordering on confessional.

Mary Helen Call i er's poem "The Battle of San Romano" from her debut collection "When the Horses" is a thought-provoking work with multiple references to the self. The poem starts by blurring the lines between art and personal experience, as seen in the opening line: "When I think about the hay, I think about what grew beside it." This ambiguity raises questions about whether the speaker's memories are triggered by the painting or vice versa. The poem's five stanzas weave a complex narrative that challenges the reader to distinguish between reality and representation.

The second stanza lists what she’s not“drawn to”i n the piece — “not the chaos of the foreground,” “not that distorted cipher of bodies,” “not the lances.” After a break, she adds, “It’s not the horse, lying loosed from God/that intrigues me.” (The denial feels Freudian; it’s such an intriguing image, and looking at the painting I’m unsure which horse she means.) Not until we’re midway through the third stanza do we learn what does compel her: “the hare sprinting off,” seemingly minor. Then the fourth stanza uses its I for irreverent speculation: “I bet his friends had said: Damnit, Paolo/be plain. Your hare is too big.”

Sara Nicholson's poem "The Goatherd and the Saint" from her book "April" displays a conversational tone that's both meandering and elusive to pin down. The ekphrastic object at its center is Bellini's painting "St. Francis in the Desert". Nicholson's speaker, situated within the Frick, offers a keen observation of their surroundings: they're enamored with the way this artwork appears to scowl above the ornate decorations in the hall, stripping away any residual sentiment from the opulent neo-baroque interior design.

Sara N i cholson's poem "The Goatherd and the Saint" from her book "April" displays a conversational tone that's both meandering and elusive to pin down. The ekphrastic object at its center is Bellini's painting "St. Francis in the Desert". Nicholson's speaker, situated within the Frick, offers a keen observation of their surroundings: they're enamored with the way this artwork appears to scowl above the ornate decorations in the hall, stripping away any residual sentiment from the opulent neo-baroque interior design.

In this modern ekphrasis, there's an intriguing contrast between the familiar and the self. The latter is unique and not easily grasped. Nicholson's poem reveals his vulnerability when he says "I admit/I'm afraid to look at/St. Francis's eye." He also expresses empathy for the donkey's awkward posture, likening it to his own unease. In stark contrast to Keats, who confidently speaks on behalf of the urn, Nicholson's phrases like "I bet" and "I think" convey a more subdued attitude towards art.

Allison Benis White's "A Magnificent Loneliness" exemplifies a unique fusion of elegy and ekphrasis in its sparse verse, drawing inspiration from four distinct Monet works. The poem "The Woman in a Green Dress" is particularly noteworthy for its introspective tone, as it weaves together the artist's personal narrative with the subject matter of the painting. White's use of imagery is striking, as seen in her lines: "This is all I want to say/about my life." When referencing art, some aspect inevitably becomes intertwined with a private recollection, much like Callier's experience. The poem repeatedly implores the reader to "Bear with me," acknowledging that description here is limited and impressionistic, rather than a precise depiction of the painting.

In "Women in the Garden," White's speaker struggles to cope with loss, finding solace in the painting's tranquil atmosphere. The women depicted are deceased yet remain accessible for contemplation, as if their presence could be summoned through words. The speaker's need to engage with the artwork suggests a desire to process grief through creative expression. Art provides a sense of stability and permanence, offering temporary respite from emotional turmoil.

Denis Johnson's poem "The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly" from his 1995 collection showcases a precursor to this new shift in focus. Johnson's vivid description of James Hampton's artwork is deeply rooted in his personal experience, as evident in the lines that recall his visit with Sam to Key West, Florida, where he was overwhelmed by the artwork and felt a sense of trepidation. The poem seamlessly blends ekphrastic commentary with biographical insight, effectively distilling the essence of the artist's vision into a miniature portrait.

Johnson's poem reveals a profound connection between himself and two literary giants: Rilke and Keats. The lines evoke the idea that even in art, there lies a sense of shared human experience, as seen in Keats' urn being "a friend to man."

The act of ekphrasis can have a profound impact on both the creator and the observer, blurring the lines between viewer and viewed.