Kay Ryan, "Poetry is a Kind of Money"

Hi all --

There's so much going on. For those of us in Odessa, TX, there's the fun news that the city's bond ratings have been withdrawn:

Screenshot of a Facebook post by the Odessa American, linking to the story "City of Odessa bond ratings withdrawn." Text: "Odessa City Manager John Beckmeyer sought to downplay the withdrawal of both Moody’s and Standard & Poor’s bond ratings while also blaming previous finance employees for the failure. Meanwhile, Texas economist Ray Perryman said such failures make it highly unlikely that investors will be willing to risk their funds in the City’s obligations. Candidates Cal Hendrick and Craig Stoker lay the blame on the current mayor and council and the toxic environment that led to a mass exodus of employees. Current Councilman Steve Thompson said he has been asking for months about the incomplete audits and worries the city’s water infrastructure woes are such that the city needs to be in a position where it could pass a bond or take on certificates of obligation."

The city didn't complete audits for 2 years (!!) and thus lacks a rating on its bonds. This puts critical infrastructure updates on hold (expect more boil notices, if downtown doesn't flood again), and as you can see, a current administrator would rather blame everyone else than take responsibility. It should not surprise you that in Odessa the word "Democrat" is thrown around like an insult and, relatedly, non-partisanship is almost inconceivable nowadays.

On a national level, the U.S. is coconut-pilled. I'd say that more than the $200 million that Kamala Harris raised in a week, attention should be paid to the volunteers who signed up in that same time: over 170,000. I see that number and think about how narrow the margins were when Biden beat Trump in swing states in 2020. This number alone... seems rather sizeable.

Also, I think Marisa Kabas gets at something important that the Harris campaign and more Democrats are articulating. Some people are weird, and it needs to be called out. The dynamics of the race have been flipped upside down in one week.

One more thing: if you're so inclined, the Inside Books Project makes sure prisoners in Texas get books. I was happy to donate a little bit and I hope you'll spread the word about them.

Kay Ryan, "Poetry is a Kind of Money"

"Poetry is a kind of money." I can't imagine writing that and not saying to yourself man I wish.

So how is poetry a kind of money? How do words have value? We're told all the time, often by people who do nothing, that words aren't worth anything. That what matters isn't what you say, but what you do, and what establishes the value of what you do is money. Ultimately, even cash isn't king, though it speaks sublimely to a certain kind of person. What really communicates is money as power. Maybe that brings us to precious metals like silver or gold, where some find themselves impressed by currency as art. But more likely we have to think about money as invisible, abstract. Financial instruments which control the fates of markets and nations. Land, where numbers can disappear entirely.

What, then, of poetry?

Poetry is a Kind of Money
Kay Ryan

Poetry is a kind of money
whose value depends upon reserves.
It’s not the paper it’s written on
or its self-announced denomination,
but the bullion, sweated from the earth
and hidden, which preserves its worth.
Nobody knows how this works,
and how can it? Why does something
stacked in some secret bank or cabinet,
some miser’s trove, far back, lambent,
and gloated over by its golem, make us
so solemnly convinced of the transaction
when Mandelstam says love, even
in translation?

Ryan tells us it "depends upon reserves." Not "paper," not "its self-announced denomination," but "bullion, sweated from the earth / and hidden." How does this work? Well, "[n]obody knows how this works."

I still have questions. I think of how, when you really want to say something, you have to have all the feelings and thoughts. Everything that matters is in reserve. But what matters might never reach another hearer! It would seem, then, the value of poetry is twofold. On the one hand, you, the person who wants to speak, must commit to your own words. You have to decide they have all the value in the world and use them as a gate to your reserves. I believe this fits with the image of reserves being "bullion," "sweated from the earth / and hidden." You're using your words to probe your experience, and your experience has endless value if approached correctly.

On the other hand, someone who wants to know what you mean has to do the work. They have to make efforts not unlike mining precious metals. Maybe they'll find a rock they think is gold but isn't; maybe they'll misidentify the metal they're looking for. And when they grasp something meaningful? Well, it's important not to immediately yell out your take, your interpretation. There are lots of people who want to bully others. You want to save your thoughts for those who appreciate them.

It's now a bit clearer how poetry has value. It has value for people who like to think. Maybe they like to think so much they're not worried about being right. But Ryan insists that the mechanics of it all are a mystery. "Nobody knows how this works, / and how can it?" I think I've done a good job outlining a theory, but the poem itself refuses my answer. It's easy to see why. What about someone who likes a poem just because of the sound, but who doesn't speak the language? What if the imagery is completely misread? Poetry still works–it is still a kind of money, dependent upon some deep reserves–but how?

Ryan leaves us with this difficult, bulky question that might be too elaborate for its own good. Oh well, it's in a poem now:

Why does something
stacked in some secret bank or cabinet,
some miser’s trove, far back, lambent,
and gloated over by its golem, make us
so solemnly convinced of the transaction
when Mandelstam says love, even
in translation?

The problem for Ryan is that some element of one's personality actually does shine through in a given work. Whatever is essential to you is "stacked in some secret bank," a "miser's trove," "gloated over by its golem." How does this transmit? How is it recognized and accepted? It's easier to see when it plainly isn't: poetry that's too cliche, poetry that's branding or gimmickry, won't do anything for anyone else. Heck, you'll be proud if it's successful, but you won't miss your own words.

And this is, well, the mystery. We're all "solemnly convinced of the transaction" when another poet uses the word "love." We all know something amazing was said. The guys (and it is almost always guys) insisting words are worthless are jealous. People readily recognize that something meaningful was said, even if they can't understand the meaning. It's kind of amazing, on this reasoning, that poetry hasn't replaced currency. We're still not sure, especially in a country with inflation, a housing shortage, and no serious social safety net, whether money buys what we need.