The Poetry of Order

Rebellious, revolutionary, bold; these words– or these attitudes, at least– frequently appear in modern poetry. The idea of  that we may rise against a status quo to reach new heights of human achievement fits well with the modern tone. But when is the last time you heard a poem extolling the virtue of order?

G.K. Chesterton’s magnificent book The Man Who Was Thursday contains an exceptionally entertaining opening dialogue between an anarchist poet and a poet of order. The anarchist is incredulous at the idea of a celebration of order. He prompts us to consider the train system.

Are not the conductors bored and sullen because they know that once they start on a certain line, it will reach a certain station asks the anarchist? The poet of order replies that just as man revels in the striking of a far off target with an arrow, so the majesty of the train’s destination infuse the experience with a far deeper beauty.

Disorder is ordinary. It pervades the natural world, frustrates human endeavors, and clouds the mind with inexactness. The truest poetry points us to order.  But we are blinded to this reality through the nature of our modern society. Our technology, attention span, and expectations all collude to convince us that our disordered lives are natural.

They are anything but natural. This dialogue of Chesterton’s imaging is representative of his marvelous ability to weave paradox into paradox to prove the truth of the most common place veracities. This truth of order is in need of vindication. Our misplaced association of the poetic with the revolutionary displays our shallowness. If we look beneath the surface of our existence, we will find the instances of order to be far more beautiful than the unimaginative cliché of poetic dissolution.