FISHING FOR TUMA: Revisiting Anglo-American
Modernists
By David Hackbridge Johnson
Over 25 years
ago, Keith Tuma’s book Fishing By
Obstinate Isles,[1]
presented the way in which British poetry of the 20th century had
been portrayed as the poor relation of American, as reflected in the lack of
interest shown in British poetry across the Atlantic. Tuma challenged this idea by expanding out
from an easy premise in order to examine what connections actually existed
between poets: between Pound/Macleod, Zukofsky/Bunting, Dorn/Tomlinson, for
example, and also tracing evidence of Anglo-American co-operation in poetry
journals and anthologies. Tuma’s book
also posited an alternative modernist trend visible from the Pound Era onwards
but largely occluded in Britain by forces of reaction that held firm for most
of the century. His recoveries were, in
the terms of his target audience, important for the way in which American
poetry lovers could participate in this new landscape by becoming readers of
Mina Loy, Basil Bunting, Joseph Macleod, and John Rodker, to name four
modernist authors he sought to reclaim as part of an expanded or revised canon
– but these very authors were hardly well-known in their country of origin
either.
In Britain the
modern/anti-modern trends were typified by The Movement’s reaction to the
perceived excesses of the Apocalyptic or New Romantic poetry as practiced by
Henry Treece, J.L. Hendry, G.S. Fraser and others. Like Andrew Crozier in his essay ‘Thrills and
Frills’, Tuma saw the reactive power of The Movement as dominant, as further
waves of modernisms sweep over it, only for the impervious granite to remain,
only momentarily soggy, but before long, as dry as it ever was. Throughout, Ted Hughes stood mid-river in wading
boots, waiting for a bite.
America had its
conservative alternative to the post-Poundian modernism of the Objectivists,[2]
in poetry that preferred the well-turned rhetoric, the local, and the ironic
observer, to the poem as an object ‘of thinking with the things as they exist’.[3] Later, after Objectivism dispersed with
several of its exponents falling silent for many years, one can chart as Tuma
does, the tepid ocean of American conservative poetry of the 1950s as an Eastern
Seaboard equivalent of The Movement, and we wonder whether at some point a
mid-Atlantic poetic voice might emerge, as irritating as a British DJ trying to
imitate Johnny Cash or Ronald Reagan. Mercifully, I don't think it ever
happened.
Moving forward in
time: has the stock of British early 90s New Gen poets risen for Keith Tuma? –
those like Don Paterson whom he couldn't bring himself to quote from at any
length back in 1998, perhaps feeling that by turning the pages of that author’s
books his fingers might become sullied by the glib and faux-modest tone of a
cocksure epigone. The standing joke on the Barque Press website was that
poets wishing to submit, in determining whether their work was suitable for the
press, should note that it didn't publish Don Paterson.
Alliances and
recovered moderns then. What has changed
in the last quarter of a century? I must
fail to answer the question with regard to cross-Atlantic alliances, other than
by a redundant retelling of the ones that Tuma mentions, as I simply have no
data, or have read the wrong books. As
for expansions and recoveries there is something to say that helps flesh out
the picture of British modernism – to reverse further the perception that
British poetry had been ‘reduced to molehills of festering decline.[4] In 2020, Carcanet brought out Apocalypse: An Anthology, edited by
James Keery and this was something of a revelation. Admittedly Keery bled out at the sides of the
Apocalyptics’ catchment area to include poets not normally associated with the
official movement, as laid out in The New
Apocalypse (1939), The White Horseman
(1941) and The Crown and the Sickle
(1943). For Keery part of the purpose
was not dissimilar to Tuma’s: an act of reclamation. The generous selection of work was in some
ways shocking, since Keery had tracked down in the manner of a literary sleuth
powerful poetry by poets to whom the only reaction of most readers upon hearing
their names was probably, ‘who?’ It is
to be expected that Keery’s work will continue as those obscure poets come in
to focus and more of their poems are found in forgotten wartime journals on
austerity stock paper.
Starting in the
mid-90s Andrew Duncan began his massive survey of British poetry of the second
half of the 20th century, with a determined focus on what was
missing from official histories. Here is
the full list to date (have I missed any out?) of Duncan's prose publications:
The Failure of Conservatism in Modern British
Poetry (2003)
Centre and Periphery in Modern British Poetry (2005)
Origins of the Underground: British Poetry Between
Apocryphon and Incident Light, 1933-79 (2008)
The Council of Heresy: A Primer of Poetry in a
Balkanised Terrain (2009)
The Long 1950s: Morality and Fantasy as Stakes
in the Poetic Game (2012)
A Poetry Boom 1990-2010 (2015)
Fulfilling the Silent Rules: Inside and Outside
in Modern British Poetry, 1960-1997 (2018)
Nothing is being suppressed: British Poetry of
the 1970s (2022)
Beautiful Feelings of Sensitive People: Screen
grabs of British Poetry in the 21st century (2024)
Read them out
like your favourite albums by The Fall or your favourite neglected British
symphonies, you know: Rubbra's Fourth, Grace Williams's Second, Peter Racine Fricker's
Fifth, the one with the cracking organ part, etc. Duncan's work
has a bewildering reach, not only in the number of poetry books that he seems
able to digest, but also in his willingness to attempt an in-depth cultural
context for each of the books he reads. Not for him the closeted world of
the close reader; he is anxious to locate poems within their political and
social environment as if they were part of it, not some sort of hived-off lump
to be examined every time the world stops turning. This means a
scattergun of politics ranging from the history of the labour movement to the
dismantlings of Thatcherism. It means
rules laid out like red rags to bulls.
It means Schubert gazing at disco glitter-balls. It means delving into the exposed sediments
where ancient peoples from the 1950s can be seen to have burnt to death by the tell-tale
appearance of a long, thin, black line. The entertainment value should
not blind us to the seriousness of the project. So fecund is Duncan’s
writing on poetry that having started at about 1938, he has already reached the
first decades of the 21st century. His next book must surely race ahead
of poets as he writes about books that have yet to be written. By this
token he has only reached the halfway point of his journey; he has the next 70
or 80 years of British poetry marked out with sticks in quicksand. It looks like none of these books was started
before Tuma’s book was published, but I suspect Duncan had been collecting
specimens for many years prior to the launch of his first, The Failure of Conservatism.
Despite Eric
Mottram's bitter disappointment at having been effectively elbowed out of his
role as editor of Poetry Review, (I
think Peter Barry has shown that his contract simply came to an end)[5]
those short years of work and his subsequent books have fed an on-going legacy
dedicated to his view of a truly symbiotic relationship between British and
American poetry. That this legacy
started with photocopiers in basements producing stapled samizdat-like
productions, and occasional bids for power via mainstream reviewing or the production
of doomed anthologies, should not belittle this legacy.[6]
Ian Sinclair
has spent a lifetime dodging waves that might overcome his poetic, which is a
unique mixture of Blakeian vision, the anthropology of gangsters, and large
doses of the psychogeographer's feeling of the damp bricks as he make his way
along a forgotten alleyway. Despite some notable successes with
mainstream publishers, Sinclair remains in and out of that world, still often producing
very slim volumes on whichever ream of fancy paper stock has been discovered in
a charity shop by a blink-and-you-miss-it publishing concern. In doing
so, he has remained loyal to his roots as a bookstall owner in Camden Passage
and as the publisher of Albion Press where his own works first appeared, one of
the more notable ventures that sprung up, as if in the wake of Eric Mottram’s
demise at Poetry Review. Sinclair remains wary, therefore, of the
mainstream's desire to package and commodify writers. Throwing money won't do, and I think it was
Sinclair who told the anecdote about Tom Raworth, who, when asked by a
potential backer what the nature of the relationship might be going forward,
said, ‘Give us your money and fuck off.’
The starting
point for Andrew Duncan's odyssey was bafflement at two schools of poetry that
had sunk beneath the waves: the Apocalypse poetry of the late 1930s and early
1940s and the British Poetry Revival of the late 1960s and early 1970s.
Beyond their peak years, both types of poetry did occasionally send bubbles up
to the surface, but if their heads broke water, they were pushed down by means
of those fishing spears manipulated deftly by the gatekeepers of a more
conservative minded poetics. This essentially means that the short-lived
moment of The Movement actually sent out genteel shockwaves into the poetic
world for the next 50 years at least; there are arguably still exponents of
what Andrew Crozier characterised as the ‘wryly deficient’.[7]
Roughly a quarter of a century after Robert Conquest's anthology New Lines, came the Penguin Book of Contemporary British Poetry, edited by Blake
Morrison and Andrew Motion, which gave The Movement the shot in the arm it needed
to leapfrog over the looming barrier of a new century. There are still
plenty of poets creating ‘occasions’ in their poems showing great verbal ingenuity
and powers of description as they determinedly remain aloof from the very
writing they seem to be so committed to. The message seems to be, ‘look
how clever I am at juggling abstracts dressed up in fancy metaphors, yet I'm really
not invested in this stuff any more than you are.’ Even the epiphanies,
and they always come, shine no brighter than a forty-watt bulb in a garden shed
as the poet tinkers with a few rusty tools. No wonder some British poets
reacted in such a horrified manner as American boors turned up on the threshold
having trampled the dahlias and kicked over the garden gnomes. For Americans did come to the obstinate isles
– carting all before them, one is tempted to say. Witness Allen Ginsberg effectively headlining
at the International Poetry Incarnation at the Royal Albert Hall in London on
11th June 1965. More modest were the
visits of Jonathan Williams and Ronald Johnson, who headed for Northumbria
where Basil Bunting was to be found, almost forgotten. The receiving antenna for many poets was Tom
Pickard who organised readings of both British and American modernist poets at
Morden Tower, Newcastle. He has been
posting on social media some of the posters advertising these events, and the roster
of poets is mouth-watering.
I can't speak
with much authority on the health of American literature classes or creative
writing classes in the US. It might be
noted that American universities benefit enormously from private patronage,
even when the National Endowment for the Arts seems to be a hollowed out shell
since Trump I. It probably dies under
Trump II. However, in Britain, creative writing is under a sustained
attack by those who want pounds, shillings and pence to be the impact of any
course sponsored by the all-powerful accountants that run so-called educational
establishments. Humanities courses are crumbling at the touch of vice
chancellors all too eager to asset strip them and bulldoze their tiny
classrooms in order to make way for a shining edifice in plate glass that is
immediately filled up with eager students of business. The sort of
business they have in mind is not that of Po-Biz, sad to say. As writer
after writer, some of them, colleagues of mine, pick up their final pay check,
having had their slim volumes packed into cardboard boxes by security guards, the
impression given is of an all-out attack against the production of mere texts
as opposed to the production of cash money in a ghastly marketization of what
universities are thought to be. At PhD level there is some subtlety
around what is thought to be new knowledge and whether creative works can be so
described. My own work in this area had
to endure a vigorous attack from an external examiner, which I parried by
saying that we could say that the arts produce knowledge even by the phrases we
use to describe them, for example, ‘I know
Bartok's six string quartets’. Thinking this a facile argument, I was
surprised to find that it did carry a little bit of weight, much to the credit
of my examiner. But subtlety is not on
hand when entire departments are destroyed by university managers determined to
crush the creative in favour of their messianic vision for a world entirely
dominated by STEM subjects. As a former sixth form student of mine said
to me, ‘we are sick of having STEM rammed down our throats when we say we want
to go and study Music or Art at university.’ This was actually an A-star student of A level
physics and maths, but did not want this to discount her creative side,
implying that science of all things needed creative input. My own role in
university life seems to have been to precipitate the closure of music
departments; Roehampton's excellent department was closed not long after
millions had been spent on an entire wing devoted to it, this happening within
weeks of me passing my Master's degree. Similarly, after having finally achieved a
PhD, Kingston's wonderful music department was drastically reduced in size, it
becoming a catchy rump devoted to TV and pop music. I should state here now that I wasn't a paid
stooge of a mysterious STEM cabal sent to seek out and destroy anyone who
hummed Brahms in the corridor. In becoming anecdotal I am merely
concealing my lack of expertise, but stories in sufficient number can build up
at least a grainy picture of what's going on, and it's not good for the
arts. There have been attempts to set up private universities, common in
the United States, but less so in England.
A.C. Grayling set up the New College of the Humanities (now Northeastern
University London) in 2011, although I'm not aware that it has a creative
writing program or a music program. In America, one recent phenomenon is
the opening of the University of Texas at Austin, whose founding seems to constitute
a bid to head off the perceived woke dominance of mainstream American
universities. It remains to be seen whether Texas at Austin will adopt an
all-embracing arts programme or whether it will merely form a writing club
devoted to the poems of Kingsley Amis. For both these establishments, I
am available to run avant-garde glee
clubs. All of this barely digested information requires a referring back
to Stefan Collini's book What Are
Universities For?, published in 2012. Since then, things having got
much worse, it's hard to resist the tempting conclusion that universities, at
least in Britain, are an invitation for students to enter an elaborate Ponzi
scheme where levels of collusion in forced pass rates and ‘student satisfaction’
breed the destruction of critical thinking and the narrowing of what
constitutes knowledge. Within such unhallowed halls it is not surprising
that poets are not welcome and must be banished as dud chips in the game. The stakes are high for those that seek to
pull the wool over the eyes of bankrupt students and their zero-hours professors.
Excessive cologne hides boardroom stink.
I can speak
with even more vanishing authority on the world of publishing since 1998. It would seem that digital publication and
self-publication have caused an explosion of poetry that makes it impossible to
survey the scene. This is one of Andrew
Duncan's main contentions. There would appear to be a divide between a
small number of main publishing houses and a significantly larger grouping of
independent presses with or without Arts Council funding. Carcanet is a halfway house, able to dispense
with equal enthusiasm and conviction large volumes of C.H. Sisson and Tom
Raworth, never knowingly present in the same room, together with a staggeringly
eclectic roster of new writers. The
situation as regards funding for publications with a modernist slant would seem
to be much improved compared to the period known as the Poetry Wars and the
active suppression of poets deemed too modern for the sensibilities of those
who expected their charming vignettes about garden ponds to be published every
month in Poetry Review. My
impression, again inexpert, is that there has been an explosion in the
diversity of voices available to the reader.
This means a dramatic increase in the number of women poets and poets
from different ethnic backgrounds writing in all styles. There might now
be something called gay poetry, although it probably would never want to call
itself that.[8]
Is class-specific poetry dead as it moves over to admit voices that feel
repressed under a different set of descriptors: new categories of gender,
sexuality – a sliding scale of identities pre-bristled to defend themselves? There is an entirely genuine way in which
having an internal revelation about oneself can immediately destabilize the
personality within accepted bounds of societal behaviour. These voices should not be automatically
disdained by those made uncomfortable by them. Was Barque Press the
cradle of Sexual Marxism, or have I done damage to Keston Sutherland by making
that up? I can't say. But similarly vital work has been continued by
the excellent Pilot Press, as it not only publishes new work but reveals again
the exquisite if fragile sensibilities of poets like John Wieners and Jack Spicer,
significant but partially-buried American voices ruined by mental health
collapse and alcoholism. I think the new British poets of Pilot Press,
Timothy Thornton and Verity Spott among them, are reading their dead
stablemates, older American voices, now republished. In this way, the generations overlap. What is
remarkable about so much experimental American poetry is that it has remained
experimental; like the permanent avant-garde
of composers like Robert Schumann or Charles Ives, who seem familiar, but never
are. Much the same could be said of Basil Bunting, Maggie O'Sullivan and
Tom Raworth, to remember three poets covered by Tuma. They can't lie down quietly. The words will
always find them out.
The publishing
of later generations outside the mainstream has a somewhat fraught
history. Finding a complete set of the Paladin poetry series (editorial
duties: John Muckle and Iain Sinclair) requires much ferreting. The
volume you want is $173 plus postage (exorbitant) from Tucson Arizona.
Rumour has it that Rupert Murdoch personally operated the Fourdrinier paper
machine that saw these books pulped. He found more meaning in the
resulting mush than in the poetry, it is said. This wave of allegedly gleeful
cultural annihilation was as shockingly bullish as Charles Osborne's stuffing
of the Poetry Society committee with side kicks in the mid 1970's, a manoeuvre
that saw the en block resignation of
Bob Cobbing's modernist axis. There must have been a time when modernist
poets huddled in an alleyway off Charing Cross Road, their teeth chattering, as
they enacted a parataxic fantasy of King Alfred in Athelney, watching their
soggy pamphlets float into storm drains. The levels and their lowest ebb.
I sensationalise only because I was too young to be there, so must pre-haunt
those empty spaces. Thank goodness for Ken Edwards at Reality Street who
kept so many vital titles in print from the early 90s to this day – books by
Denise Riley, Maggie O'Sullivan, Allen Fisher, and Bill Griffiths, to name but
a few. And just days ago came Arcadian
Rustbelt: The Second Generation of British Underground Poetry, edited by
Andrew Duncan and John Goodby from Waterloo Press. It's possible to describe this book as
lavish. Hens' teeth and poetry pamphlets gathered between red, white and
blue covers – it is a remarkable collection of survivors. A quick back
and forth chat with John Goodby confirms an American influence in his own work –
not so much the Beats as I first thought, but the beguiling Sonnets of Ted Berrigan. He's not
the only Rustbelt poet looking out over New York or Black Mountain skylines.
Reclaiming
fugitive American poetical texts has been easier thanks to the enormous Norton
Anthology, Postmodern American Poetry,
edited by Paul Hoover. The first edition from 1994 has 701 pages, the second
from 2012 has well over a thousand. A
far cry from the vexed history of British experimental poetry publishing.
I realise this is a very sketchy outline based on the books looming over me in
my airless study. There is plenty to mine, not least the rich seams of
the little magazines, for which a permanent berth is needed amid the National
Poetry Library's bulging stacks.
My impression
is that a sort of Mandarin poetry best expressed in the finely modulated work
of Peter Scupham, died with him. Yes we
can lament this. I once reviewed a
Scupham volume and I found it too good to be true. The discursive Personism of Frank O'Hara seems
to have a longer reach into the poetic sensibilities of modern British writers
than the late, late Baroque of Scupham, together with the happenstance poetry
of John Ashbery finding in mid-poem the equivalent of Thoreau's trout in the
milk pail, or perhaps pretending to write a poem to go with Cecil Taylor's Excursions on a Wobbly Rail. I notice I am piling up American
influences on British poetry, not the other way round. In this sense, nothing much has changed in the
last quarter of a century. There has
been no British Invasion. Neither have
the champions of the two nations met midway in the Atlantic Ocean to hack out a
treaty. To use Keith Tuma's word, the ‘static’ between the two countries
has now become deafening, so that any entente between the different layers upon
which poetry operates simply cannot be heard.
Turn the dials on the radio and it's the same screeching noise.
Does it matter? Does Academe matter as it retreats from poetry's
shark-infested waters to polish the glass of its ziggurats devoted to the gods
of MBA and HR? Is the true poet always banished as Plato desired?
In failing to answer these questions I can only appeal to Professor Tuma,
hopefully well-armed against the powers of darkness that I hysterically invent
– might he give us an update as poetic data runs wild around him? Are there any levers operable that will unlock
recalcitrant doors to consensus? America, can you hear us?
I want to end
on a less frenzied note by returning to Eric Mottram. In March 2022, there was a two-day conference
based on his idea of cross-Atlantic inspiration running both ways, organized by
Valerie Soar and Geoffrey Browell at King's College London. Here were Jerome Rothenberg, Charlie Morrow
and Charles Bernstein, sharing a platform with Ken Edwards, Allen Fisher, Gavin
Selerie, and Robert Hampson, just to name some of the participants. Soar
has continued the work begun jointly with her husband on the Mottram archive,
consisting of books, pamphlets, essays, letters, lecture notes, and sundry
ephemera that make up a vivid picture of cultural interactions. Having
tried to read Mottram's poetry many times and having come to the conclusion
that he had a tin ear, I was completely bowled over by the revelatory readings
of his work given by Selerie, Edwards and Fisher – people who had known him and
knew how his poetry worked and that it had to be read aloud for his long lines
to find their breath and span. I was quick to empty my pockets in order to
purchase the series of beautiful Mottram books for sale from Peterjon Skelt’s North
and South press. If this is English poetry, it is filtered through the
open field of Charles Olson and the clotted spirituality of Robert
Duncan. It turns out that Mottram, who was a lover of classical music,
could sing in the long-limbed manner of Hugo Wolf and Arnold Schoenberg.
Noticeable was the age of most of the participants at this conference. It didn't feel like a nostalgia trip, how
could it with Rothenberg, in his mid-nineties, intoning deliciously in the manner
of the direst prophet? But it is sad to note that since the event,
Rothenberg and Selerie have passed away.
The latter was at work until his last days on a large prose work on the
year 1968, which he spent in the States, living in the very moment of the
counter culture as it happened across politics and the arts. Selerie had
a lifelong engagement with American culture stemming from that pivotal trip and
he increasingly seems a vital figure in any discussions about the connections
between American and British culture. He was one of the few poets that
didn't exclusively rely on illegally imported books of American poetry to be
had from Compendium Books in Camden, since he had already bought them in the
States and kept his dog-eared copies to the last. His own work, developed
over the course of large and intensively researched projects, is erudite but
playful, paratactical but lucid, especially when read by the poet himself. Albeit perhaps owing his structural
imperatives to American models such as Louis Zukofsky's “A’’ and Charles Olson's The
Maximus Poems, Selerie is strikingly original, a dedicated lecturer of
English, writing mainly through Irish, Caribbean or American lenses – Sheridan
Le Fanu (Le Fanu’s Ghost, 2006), Joe
Harriott (Hariot Double, 2016), Bob
Dylan (an essay nearly every year) talking across the din of the ocean.
In their different
ways, Mottram and Selerie can be seen to embrace the energetic generosity of
large-scale American poetry. These
poets, ‘habituated to the vast’,[9]
are meeting on ground that is less contested.
There are no poetry wars happening in these richly wrought works; there
are greater things at stake: the reimagining of lost experience, the turbulent
shifting landscapes of history, and the forces deciding which voices get thrust
onto peaks or plunged into troughs. That American and British poets can
meet and not churn out perfectly formed anecdotes about their little domestic
failings, is a sign that in so meeting, a real context can be found for genuine
and mutual address, not dependent on the imprimatur of universities or
established organs of cultural production. Ambition can produce hubris
and there are many that will decry the huge structures of the big beasts in
American poetry and regard their influence as baleful – see Alan Brownjohn’s
hostile critique of Olson and Duncan.[10] But if poetry wants to be little, it can be,
but it may be wasting opportunities and not seeing the seething forest beyond
its little courtyard of certainties. There, risk is certain, but none
taken is retirement to a safe distance. Swathes of British poetry seem to
indicate happy retirement. I don't think I'm arguing that British and
American poetry can ‘help each other’ in the way that Eliot suggested in 1953,[11]
since the breach has been too wide. But
I think on certain levels of poetic discourse there is room for nourishment, the
purpose being far from trying to claim that the poetry from the two different
countries could ever be a perfect match, more that there are broad spaces to be
mapped out together far beyond the authoritative self with its metaphors and
plain-style writing. Here there is room for much vigorous interplay.
Whether Tuma
wishes to answer my call for a renewed survey of cross-Atlantic sites of
modernism and conservatism in poetry or not, I wonder if the project has become
ever more diffuse in terms of data capture alone. In mentioning Joseph
Macleod's characterisation of poetry consisting of a ‘dozen rival schools’,[12]
I wonder if now those dozens might be multiplied a dozen times. When does
a plethora finally resist any attempt at analysis? Tuma's book is part
analysis, part recovery, and he provides a useful model to be emulated; to put
it in admittedly crude terms: discover the conflict sites where poets are
thrown into the arena, examine the victors, and inspect the wounds of the
vanquished. His resurrection for American readers of Loy and Macleod is
as much a spur in Britain to explore the voices that for whatever reason became
marginal. Mottram, Duncan, Carcanet and other independent presses show
the way.
©DHJ 2024
[1]
Northwestern University Press, 1998. The
title is taken from Ezra Pound’s ‘E.P. Ode Pour L'election De Son Sepulchre’,
part 1 of Hugh Selwyn Mauberley.
[2]
(the Americans Louis Zukofsky, William Carlos Williams, Charles Reznikoff,
George Oppen and Carl Rakosi, and the British Basil Bunting)
[3]
Zukofsky, An Objective, 1931.
[4]
Tuma, p. 7.
[5]
See Peter Barry, Poetry Wars: British
Poetry of the 1970s and the Battle of Earls Court, Salt Publishing, 2006.
[6]
I have seen photographs on social media of what was Bob Cobbing's photocopier,
now in a place of rest in Hugh Metcalfe's front garden. Due homage has been paid by Jeff Hilson and
Tim Fletcher.
[7]
Andrew Crozier (ed. Ian Brinton), Thrills
and Frills, Shearsman, p. 24.
[8]
But Andrew Duncan does have a sub-section on it on his website: https://angelexhaust.blogspot.com/search/label/gay%20poetry
[9]
Coleridge.
[10]
Tuma, p. 64.
[11]
Ibid. p. 108.
[12]
Ibid. p. 126.