Freedom of expression in Poetry.

[Erthona]

William Blake wrote, "You never know what is enough, until you know what is too much." It has not been all that long ago when women were regarded as property, and the man could do pretty much as he wished to them. This is where the expression "rule of thumb" came from. In other words he could not beat her with a stick that was bigger around than his thumb. Such a law when instituted would have seemed liberal to the majority of the people. I am sure there were more than a few men who said such things as, who the hell does the government think it is telling me what size of stick I can beat my wife with, it's none of their damn business. We progressed, and are still progressing through what constitutes child abuse, and at what point the the government can step in and remove the child from the home. But, and this is a big but (and not mine), there is a way poetry can examines a particular issue, such as in "The Whipping" by Robert Hayden (see below), without the point being one of titillation, or preaching. Let the poem bring awareness to the reader, but do not tell the reader what to think. There is for me, a fairly obvious line that says if a poem is written for shock value, or if a poem is shocking because of the subject matter. Maybe it is not always easy to see, but with a little thought one can generally tell if the poem is exploitative or not. Everyone always wants hard and fast rules to go by, but as with most things in life, one has to actually use ones brain to come to a conclusion. Will there be pieces that are on the line, certainly, and as we have always done, we will struggle with them and among ourselves, but this is how we progress down the road to discovering the mores which are the most humane, but at the same time allow for the greatest amount of freedom, and in our case, freedom of expression.

Dale

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The Whipping by Robert Hayden
The old woman across the way
is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
her goodness and his wrongs.

Wildly he crashes through elephant ears,
pleads in dusty zinnias,
while she in spite of crippling fat
pursues and corners him.

She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling
boy till the stick breaks
in her hand. His tears are rainy weather
to woundlike memories:

My head gripped in bony vise
of knees, the writhing struggle
to wrench free, the blows, the fear
worse than blows that hateful

Words could bring, the face that I
no longer knew or loved . . .
Well, it is over now, it is over,
and the boy sobs in his room,

And the woman leans muttering against
a tree, exhausted, purged--
avenged in part for lifelong hidings
she has had to bear.