Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in
caftan
Of tan with henna hackles, halt!
Damned universal cock, as if the
sun
Was blackamoor to bear your
blazing tail.
Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the
personal.
Your world is you. I am my
world.
You ten-foot poet among
inchlings. Fat!
Begone! An inchling bristles in
these pines,
Bristles, and points their
Appalachian tangs,
And fears not portly Azcan nor
his hoos.
This is a difficult poem to explicate, because it makes, despite
the large proportion of nonsense words, such complete sense explanations
seem counter-productive. But I only have to go as far as the Wikipedia entry on
this poem to be reminded that the gulf between poet and reader in Stevens is always
vast. In fact, the reading of the poem from Stevens’ most esteemed readers is
so much opposed by the actual poem, it’s instructive to paste the entire interpretation
(as of 6/1/18 at least) here:
This poem can be read as a
declaration of independence for American poetry. The new world's
"inchling" poets are defiant towards the traditional literary canon,
and particularly defiant against the unnamed, arrogant, self-appointed
gatekeeper of literary tradition; they are confident instead in their own free
powers of innovation in the New World. The poem can be compared to "The
Paltry Nude Starts on a Spring Voyage" on Helen Vendler's interpretation
of it as an expression of confidence in new American art. On this reading
Chieftain Iffucan represents the canon, making a claim to universality and a
privileged access to inspiration that is challenged by the Appalachian
inchlings. The richness of tradition is conceded ("Fat!...."), but it
is relativized ("Your world is you"). Nevertheless, a single poet is
addressed but not identified in the poem; the possibility that that poet is T.
S. Eliot, who emigrated from the New World to the Old World, problematizes
whether the "canon" is or is not un-American.
Somehow, I don’t think the critics are just being polite about
the ridiculous way the poet presents himself here. The first stanza conjures
the spectacle of a grossly obese man wearing a caftan and parading like a
ceremonial cock’s comb his red dyed hair (henna was traditionally used to dye
hair red, for example by the Pre-Raphaelites). It’s impossible not to point out
in this context that Stevens himself had red hair and – shall we say – ample girth.
The cheesy play on words of “if you can” and “as can” only heightens the
silliness, as if a Boumi hat has been placed on the Chieftain’s head.
The self-deprecation expands in the second stanza, as the
sun is compared to a “blackamoor” – a stereotyped depiction of African and Asia
servants/slaves by Europeans – to serve this rooster tail of spectacle that is
derived from the delusions of the male ego (“damned universal cock”).
The strutting referred to here is obviously of the poetic
variety, as our would-be chief, like a crowing cock, displays the ornate images
and incessant rhymes that would feed his desire for authority and/or
recognition.
But the third stanza wrecks this pretense faster than an ignored
diet plan: “Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat!” The seemingly incongruous comeback to this, “I
am the personal. / Your world is you. I am my world” suggests that the main
character is responding to an attack. What does a poet do when he is accused,
as Stevens often was, of being too lush, too stylish, too obscure, too detached
from reality? He points out coldly, as here, that all of this makes perfect
sense to him, in his world. That it doesn’t register in another world is not,
in fact, his concern.
The poem then darkens – and deepens – by making an abrupt
shift from self-examination toward outward hostility to him. The ten-foot poet
(our Chieftain) is now addressed by someone or something else, an inchling (clear
enough in context but, as far as I can tell, a made up word). The twist here is
that the inchling, or bantam if you prefer (smaller roosters in contrast to the
giant cock), has the power over the giant instead of vice-versa. He is the one
who bids him “begone” and dismisses him by not fearing/hearing his owl-like
hoos.
Instead, he “bristles” (reacts angrily and defensively as
if to a grave offense, with hair stood on end) and the associated they “point their
Appalachian tangs,” the latter word not only connoting the sound of a strong
accent but also a literal knife that vows to cut up his work to ribbons. Indeed,
if everyone inhabits different worlds, as suggested in the earlier stanza, the
lack of commerce between the giant and the inchling gives the power to the
inchling.
It is that sense of just how much power ignorance wields that
lifts this up from what would be a standard – albeit strangely worded – retort to one’s critics.
We are taught – generally – that there are “great” writers who “rise to the top”
by subjecting their “genius” to the “tempering” of multiple, critical readings.
This poem shows an altogether contradictory experience, where illiterate and
venomous mediocrities routinely destroy poetic geniuses and their work, as if
that is the natural order of things.
Comically, such an end is fitting for our Azcan, who
finds he has far less power and influence that he had egoistically led himself
to believe. More seriously, it should also prompt a sense of cognitive
dissonance in the reader, who would likely hold on to the belief despite the
evidence that his/her reading list has been pre-screened by reputable readers. Ah,
but that’s the beauty of separate worlds! They have such rich, open
possibilities.
Chronologies with Stevens are often speculative, but this
poem appears to have been composed around the same time as “The Comedian as
Letter C,” an epic foray into romantic illusion that was itself a rewrite of an
equally epic “From the Journals of Crispin.” This earlier piece had been
composed for and submitted to some literary contest hand-picked by Stevens’
friends. Unfortunately, the poem did not win, or even place. This apparently
hit Stevens hard, as he threw the entire manuscript in the trash when it was
returned. Some enterprising neighbor rescued it, held onto it for decades
without Stevens’ knowledge, and finally released it to the scholarly circuit,
where it eventually appeared in Opus
Posthumous.
That background suggests a possible real-life inspiration
for “Bantams in Pine-Woods.” Poets dependent on publication to be read (or not
read, as the case often is) feel perhaps more keenly than other artists the
hegemony that critics and literary gatekeepers have over their work. It’s some
comfort that someone as great as Stevens experienced it and kept his humor
intact.
