Volume 24 111
I associate therapeutic poetry with bad
writing—especially my own. I guess there is some
therapeutic aspect in much poetry, but it also seems
to me that it concerns the emotional impulse behind
the poem rather than the poem itself. I have often
sat down and poured my suffering soul onto some
innocent piece of paper, but surrendering to a pow-
erful subjective emotional state does not create an
imaginative structure that will replicate the experi-
ence in the reader’s mind. A poem is a mysterious
verbal device, a sort of magic spell, directed not at
the author but the reader. If a poem is therapeutic,
then the patient must be the reader not the writer.
In your experience, how much of writing po-
etry is art, and how much is craft?
All art depends on craft. Without proper tech-
nique a poet, however talented, can amount to very
little. Despite the proliferation of graduate writing
programs—perhaps because of them—our age has
seen both a denigration and ignorance of poetic
craft. Today any poet who wants to master verse-
craft must do it mostly on his or her own. Tech-
nique is the necessary beginning, but it is only a
means to an expressive end. Having something gen-
uinely compelling to express is essential. That gift
can’t be taught.
Your considerable background in the business
world might come as a surprise to readers famil-
iar only with your poetry. Could you comment on
this background?
I originally went to graduate school in litera-
ture, but it seemed a bad place for me as a writer. I
liked it too much. Harvard aggravated my inherent
tendency to be overly intellectual and self-conscious.
Working in business gave me a chance to construct
a different sort of writing life—more private, inde-
pendent, and contemplative. I went to Stanford Busi-
ness School, and in 1977 I joined General Foods in
New York. When I resigned fifteen years later, I was
a Vice President. I still miss the people I worked
with. They were smart, friendly, and funny. There
were a few idiots, scoundrels, and egomaniacs, but
no more than I’ve encountered in literary life.
Were you engaged in creative writing at the
same time that you were involved in a business
career?
Yes. I went into business to be a poet. For me,
business was always just a job, even though I ended
up doing quite well. I would work ten or twelve
hours a day at the office, and then I tried to squeeze
two or three hours of writing in each night at home.
It wasn’t easy, but I managed—mostly by giving
up other things.
Did you consider these pursuits antithetical or
complementary to each other?
I never considered business as either antithet-
ical or complementary to my writing. Business and
poetry were simply different occupations.
In your essay “Business and Poetry,” in which
you create an intriguing exploration of such poets
as T. S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, James Dickey, and
others who sustained themselves and their families
in business careers, you pose the question: “How
did their business careers affect the lives and works
of these poets?” This issue has personal relevance
to you. Would you answer the same question you
posed in your essay? How has your experience in
the business world affected your literary work?
My years in business offered at least two ad-
vantages. First, they allowed me to develop as a poet
at my own pace and in my own way. I had no pres-
sure to publish or need to conform to any academic
or intellectual fashion. I made my own necessary
mistakes and discoveries. Working in isolation, my
most intense literary relationships were with the
great dead, the most demanding and yet attentive
colleagues. Had I stayed at Harvard I would have
been too vulnerable to the many captivating influ-
ences around me. Neglect, obscurity, and loneliness
are the necessary nourishment of a young poet.
Second, working in business greatly broadened
my life experience. It permitted me—indeed forced
me—to see the world and literature from a differ-
ent angle than I had in graduate school. Working
with intelligent but non-literary people for nearly
twenty years made me conscious of the cultural elit-
ism I had acquired at Stanford and Harvard. I no
longer took certain assumptions for granted. Most
important, I understood the importance of writing
in a way that does not exclude intelligent people.
Could you discuss your writing life outside the
university?
It is an odd enterprise in our society to make a
living as a poet outside academia. It’s definitely not
a career for the faint of heart. The poems—no mat-
ter how good—won’t pay the bills. I work seven
days a week. I travel constantly giving readings and
lectures—always working on airplanes and in hotel
rooms. I edit anthologies, write for BBC Radio, re-
view books and music, and collaborate with com-
posers. The practical challenge is to pay the bills,
which I’ve gradually learned how to do. The deeper
challenge is primarily spiritual—how to create and
sustain a passionate sense of living the right life. That
is far more difficult. Loneliness, exhaustion, disap-
pointment, and despair are always nearby.The Litany