Soup to nuts, with some excellent courses.
As the title indicates this is the complete collection of all Kenneth Rexroth's poems, and it's a doorstop, over 700 pages long, minus notes, introduction, and index. It stretches from the mid-1920s, when Rexroth had made his way to San Francisco, and was just in entering his own twenties--after a life that had already taken him through the Midwest, the mountain region, Mexico, dedicated to a revolutionary politics--to the 1970s, a full half century of work.
The early poems are clearly juvenalia, and are really only for the completist or those interested in the fine details of American culture in the 1920s. Rexroth was clearly influenced by surrealism and its associates, but he lacked the imagination that his later friend Philip Lamantia would bring to the movement when Lamantia was only a callow youth of 16. Rexroth continues to experiment through the 1930s, and some of these poems are affecting but none are particularly memorable.
It is only in the 1940s that he really comes into his own, as he finds his voice. Supposedly, Rexroth wanted the poet William Everson (later Brother Antonius) to embody the autochthonous intelligence, and was upset when Everson showed to much learning. Reading these, it seems that Rexroth may have seen a similar struggle in himself: between the grounded intelligence and the intellectual.
The poems flips back and forth between poems that insist on immanence and closely observe the natural world--there's a bit of Robinson Jeffers in him, though Rexroth is less moved by the jagged edge of the continent and ocean, more by the soft hills of the Bay Area and its flora and fauna. Other poems, though, are erudite, almost to a fault, with references from all sorts of mythologies and ancient philosophies and religions. (In addition to regularly reading the Encyclopedia Britannica, straight through like a novel, he read novels and philosophy and taught himself a number of languages.) The longer poems go back and forth between the two modes within the same poem, alternating observation with reflection.
Rexroth's style was relaxed, the lines--as he said--about seven syllables long, with no rhyming scheme. They scan but, obviously, follow no specific meter. That's part of his quest to be grounded, I think. One can also see the migration of poetry to popular music--a transit that occurred during his lifetime, and one which he helped to initiate: several of his poems, he notes, are meant to be read to certain pieces of music. In later years, Rexroth would be associated with the Beats, who continued these experiments.
The second of his really long pieces--after The Phoenix and the Tortoise (which is the best)--called The Dragon and the Unicorn has him somewhat curdled. He was spending time in Europe, remarking on what he saw there, and also endlessly bitching about the world, and the things he didn't like: anti-Semitism (which he said was stupid because the Jews had already hurt themselves by being too materialistic!), modern women, collectivisms of any kind. It doesn't show him at his best.
His work was more sporadic through the 1950s and 1960s, before reaching a new place int he 1970s. He had long been interested in Asian poetry, especially Chinese--inspired by Ezra Pound, though they came to hate each other--and there's a lapidary quality to these later poems--some of which were translations.
Rexroth never really liked being called The Father of the Beats, though in many ways he was--he didn't really like being associated with any kind of movement. (He continually fetishized community over collectives, which made him a fitting symbol for later conservative cultural commentators, since he never went for communism, though they had to scrape away much of his leftism to get at their preferred libertarianism.) He had mystical notions of sex--though he also despised mysticism--and love, and many of these poems deal with the women in his life.
Because that's the other thing: he had numerous, often overlapping affairs, and for all the ways he idealized sex and love, he was also a member in good standing of what David Foster Wallace called the mid-century's Great Male Narcissists. Women could also be objects to him, symbols. It becomes especially clear when reading this book in one lump, as I have these past eight months, and seeing similar ideas constantly reappear.
In the end, though, the various foibles, the ups-and-downs of quality do not detract much from the book. What's good here is really good, and Rexroth's influence was immense on the poets who followed him--he's severely under-recognized. The introductory matter makes something of a case for him, but not particularly well nor comprehensively. It's a pity not to have a better menu.
But if you're willing to eat slowly, and digest slowly, the book will reward you many times over.