The Poetry Foundation website has recently posted a new interview with poet Gary Snyder in which he discusses crosscultural influences in Western and East Asian poetry. (The interview also presents links to several of Snyder’s poems.)
At one point, the interviewer suggests that there might be similarities between the process of writing a poem and working on a Zen koan. Snyder argues that there’s a key difference:
The intention of a koan is to make people who are bright in an ordinary way, or ordinary people who are bright in an odd way, work harder and go further into themselves. The language presents an opportunity to perceive a metaphor that calls one not to “thought” but to work. Work is performance. Performance is embodiment, and not subject to ordinary rational analysis—it must spring forth freely and spontaneously, as does life for most working people, who are always dealing with the immediate. That’s one kind of koan. So in a way we’re not talking about “language,” we’re talking about the theater of life.
Poetry, Snyder seems to be arguing, can serve as a means for reaching greater understanding through language’s power to order thought into comprehensibility. But koans, he says, use language to create an immediate transformative experience, something less like language and more deeply connected to the immediacy of life. I know far too little about koans or Rinzai Zen Buddhism to offer thoughts on Snyder’s sense of how koans work. But I’m curious about the other side of the equation here: is there any reason why the experience of reading or writing poetry couldn’t also create a non-rational, transformative effect—an understanding that relies not on rational comprehension of the poem’s language, but rather on the emotional and intellectual experience of encountering a poem on the page?
It seems to me that much of the power of poetry—and of art in general—lies in realms beyond rational understanding. Rhymes, assonances, and alliterations can sometimes feel significant in ways you’d be hard pressed to explain in rational terms; and you can sometimes scan the meter of a line without saying very much of importance about the ways in which its rhythm shapes your understanding of a poem’s meaning. Music works the same way: a song might be powerful in part because of its message, but much of its emotional and experiential force would seem to come from the felt experience of its musical structures and sounds.
A related question: what exactly is the purpose of a poem or a song? Most do lend themselves to some kind of rational understanding—but is that what they’re for? So much of the enjoyment of art is experiential, rather than rational, and so I wonder if meaning in poetry (or music, or any other kind of artistic expression) is ultimately secondary to the felt experience of reading (or listening, viewing, etc.).