the paradox of poetic 'impersonality'
So, poetry is both 'personal' and 'impersonal' ??? in that it is, or may be, rooted in personal experience, and yet it reaches out beyond the personal to touch upon realms that are impersonal, universal, absolute ???
The following lines from “TRADITION AND THE INDIVIDUAL TALENT” (1919) seem to fall into place:
// "What happens is a continual surrender of himself as he is at the moment to something which is more valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual self.;.sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality."
"The mind of the poet is the shred of platinum. It may partly or exclusively operate upon the experience of the man
himself; but, the more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffen and the mind which creates; the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions which are its material."
"But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." //
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
- W.H. Auden, 'In Memory of W.B.