Happy birthday Mr. Corwin

Ever heard of Norman Corwin? Me either, though I feel foolish for not. Mr. Corwin celebrated his 100th birthday Monday. There were a few stories here and there – NPR mostly, as it turns out Corwin did series of radio plays for NPR when he was a mere youngster in his 80s.
Norma Corwin is a name pretty well lost in the annals of time now, which is a shame I guess. I mean just a quick Google search lists his Academy Award, Peabody Medals, Golden Globes and Emmys. He is an inductee into the Radio Broadcasting Hall of Fame, and that’s where he fits into this column.
When it comes to the Golden Age of Radio, Corwin is a peer to Orson Wells. He was an inspiration to Rod Sterling and Norman Leer. His nickname is the “Poet Laureate of Radio.”
He is most famous, in fact, for a poem. The 65th anniversary of the broadcast of “On a Note of Triumph” is Saturday. That single broadcast, which celebrated the Allied victory in Europe on VE Day was broadcast to 60 million people. Guys like Studs Terkel and Carl Sandburg heard it. Sandberg called it the most important radio broadcast ever.
Folks from that generation can quote whole verses. It brought people to tears. It made them proud to be an American. It helped them remember the terrible toll of World War II. It did everything a poem, and a poet, is supposed to do – it created a moment of collective consciousness, when regular people from New York City to New Mexico came together in a moment frozen forever in time.
It is also a dreadful poem. The verbiage is overwrought. The lofty patriotic verses literally smother the grandiose metaphors. Here’s a typical verse:

Lord God of trajectory and blast
Whose terrible sword has laid open the serpent
So it withers in the sun for the just to see,
Sheathe now the swift avenging blade with the names of nations writ on it,
And assist in the preparation of the ploughshare.

So it got me thinking about the lesson for today. And that is, what is eternal art anyway? This poem, so important then, is barely remembered today. It’s no longer a poem, it’s history; a literary footnote. (To be fair to Corwin, his body of work is deep, complex and worth study.)
Yet Whitman’s Leaves of Grass for example, also deeply American, also overwhelmingly popular, also able to move readers to emotional depths, is considered one of the classics, a poem among poems. High art.
I'll tell you why with an example. A few years ago, at the start of the Iraq war, a collection of anti-war poetry was released, and many modern poets contributed. I forget the title right now, but it’s no matter. The poems were forgettable. Why? Because poetry is not supposed to address you directly – it is not supposed to look you in the eye and stare you down.
Oh you’ll remember it for a while if it does, just as people remembered “On a Note of Triumph” for many years after. But a word of advice to all you “anti” and “pro” poets out there – anti-war, anti-government, pro-America, pro-religion.
Poetry should circle around. Poetry should be seen out of the corner of the readers’ eye. A poem should sink in, not shout out. It should be worn like an old hat, not saluted like a crisp flag. It should be about something, and about everything, and about anything.
Years after you read a good poem, you may be sitting at a traffic light, eating at a restaurant, playing catch with your kid, when you remember. NPR should not have to remind you.