From time to time someone remarks that American poets don't write political poems. That is a strange thing to say even once. Leave aside the thousands of polemical verses on Web sites. Did Allen Ginsberg never exist? Did Robert Lowell never write "Waking Early Sunday Morning" with its lines about "top-heavy Goliath" and "our children when they fall/in small war on the heels of small/war"? Does the work of C.K. Williams not count? Carolyn Forché? Maybe the myth of apolitical American writing is part of the Cold War heritage: Our idea of political poetry is based on the long, documented history of censorship and punitive government control in countries once called "satellite states," such as Poland and Romania. Lives like those of the Russian poet Osip Mandelstam, who died in a Stalinist labor camp, or the Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz, who lived much of his life in exile, became something like fables. Some thinkers wondered if repression might be good for poetry -- an idea that Milosz dismissed as "envying a hunchback his hump."
Here is a poem from Tess Gallagher's rich, striking, new collection Dear Ghosts,. The comma in her title emphasizes how elegiac the book is, addressed to ghosts of various kinds and degrees of intimacy. The figure of the Eastern European writer resisting and surviving under the old communist empire is a kind of ghost: still haunting and urgent or emblematic for the West. Like traditional ghost stories, maybe this persistent specter of Soviet oppression expresses semi-conscious fears about our own proclivities. Gallagher understands the relationship between Eastern European poetry and American poetry, and she fits her poem into that history. The half-legendary life of poetry in the Soviet years gives Gallagher a way to convey her political meaning in her poem "Weather Report":
The Romanian poets
under Ceausescu, Liliana
said, would codify opposition
to the despots in this manner: because
there was no gas and they were cold, everyone
was cold, all they had to do was write
how cold it is . . . so cold . . . and their
readers knew exactly what was meant.
No one had to go to jail