His once crisp cutting edge reviews were for many years very funny during the peak of his satirical career, but his writing star in the online age has dulled and ended with no place to evolve, his satirical tank has hit empty, the one trick shtick's washed up, and he knows now he is a fraud in Filiocht.
He is a laughably transparent critical hypocrite. When reviewing the Dennis O'Driscoll Stepping Stones interviews, and Heaney generally, he deploys the word 'cunning' a lot with a pejorative bias, stating parenthetically:
"The slyest moments here are his backhanded judgments on fellow poets."
...before indulging in the exact same practice:
"The richness of these interviews comes in part from the weakness of character inadvertently revealed. A poetry of warmth and humility has been drawn around a personality at times icy with conceit."
The obvious statement to make about Logan's style is that he has made a name for himself as a head-stomper, applying the sneeriest of standards to others, when his own poetry is a weak gruel fare and of a laughably poorer quality than most of the people's he trolls.
Henry Lloyd Moon, a poster responding on the Guardian Books Blog in 2009 to a worshipful blog by John Sutherland toadying up to Martin Amis - could equally be referring to Logan's overblown poetic standing when s/he writes:
"It's like laughing along with the worldly but weedy class show-off."
Poet-manque Logan is clearly more of an aging comedian past his best than a literary valuable critic professing praiseful prayerfully and with a sense of reverence for the art and objects in language that make a poem sing in the aural ear of everyone regardless of our education or standing, and is merely an outrageously readable professional and increasingly bitter has been troll among whose many glaring faults is one that anyone tutored by the people of the goddess Art can spot.
That for all his material comfort, he is essentially unfulfilled in the role of poet, because these days virtually no Joy ever passes from his mental lips onto the review page. He has written far too much satire, like a pub bore whinging in the corner alone because their life long lists of what is wrong and not working and what is rubbish and what is unworthy of the senior critical misanthrope's attention and time, are way too depressing and spiritually toxic for the junior alcoholics to stomach.
The one or two that can barely tolerate the toxic spewking are usually equally senior literary haters and intellectual failures rejecting any form of simple positive literary language of broad inclusion, and, too satirically trapped and unable to free their minds from the chains of mental slavery to their own pathetic egos incapable of facing up publicly to their low stations and initiating the sweeping cerebral changes which will reverse the mind's poetic polarity to draw form and make sing the spirit of human happiness that our vampiric Loganites leach from all around when talking in print their poetically poisonous brand of increasingly unfunnier and unfunnier uncritical lazy polished stand up doggerelist routines.
The simple humble human state of being in awe and wonder with the divine, is something which has totally by-passed this awful doggerelist's plodding ditties made from the most mediocre low quality psychic head-juice in an untutored joyless intellect that is the contemporary poetic equivalent of the lowest first grade 'culbard' (back/rear-bard) of the eight in the ('unfree') Dóer bard caste.
Sixteen bardic levels, eight in the Dóer, and eight in the ('free') Sóer bard class; that this dinosaur native of Boston Clowntalkin wud defecate his critical trews if presented with by someone possessing authentic knowledge of Filiocht who came and exposed his own doggerelistic nonsense and attempted to instigate a Bardic Colloquy with him.
Barely at the bottom, tenth and lowest grade ye start at on the twelve year literary Fili poet curriculum, an ollaire, ('apple') who needed to have written seven pieces of satirical text to move up to the next grade in their studies, and that one ancient gloss translated by Ronald Thurneyson in Mittelirische Verslehren, Irish tract on the poetic metres that present in comprehensive detail the eight grades of the noble sóerbards ('freebards'), describes Logan's art as "the bastard sport of the juggler's apple"; whilst another ancient Irish literary source labels this lowest grade "fuirseoir gan dán" "a buffoon without skill" in the Liam Breatnach translated (1978) Uraicecht na Ríar/Primer of Stipulations.
A 10C legal text on the status of poets, that includes information on each grade of the ten grades on the 12 year Fili course, as well as the sixteen grades of each of the sixteen grades of bard's log enech 'face price'; the amount of payment each meter and grade can expect for a text composed in the metres appropriate to their grades, as well as the compensation they receive for civil injury law cases based on status. And the Reader also learns the number and type of compositions one must have to attain each grade; and, most importantly, the difference between a literary Fili and common bard at the highest rig-bard grade, with only eight years training.
Which settled recently on Oxford university poet and literary goddess Fiona Sampson's Facebook; a silent stand off between the Bob Dylan is a Poet crowd led by Carcanet hippy Michael Schmidt, and the how dare you dare you Bob Dylan is not a poet crowd; with both sides unable to resolve the question because, it can be argued, in the purest theoretical sense, members on both sides of the debate, by the standards of the Primer of Stipulations, are not poets either because according to the authoritative text on the matter: "Bard d(an)o: cin dligedfogluime is indtleacht fadeisin": "A bard, then: without the prerogative of learning, but intellect alone."
Strictly speaking, from a traditional Irish poetry perspective, unless one has 'the prerogative of learning', has studied and passed the set requirements of the 12 year Irish literary Fili poet curriculum, they are considered a bard not a literary poet; by those Writing Studies graduates that had completed the required twelve to sixteen years of exacting study and graduated to speaking fluently at the very highest of their potential, toxic in satire and splendorous in praise, wrapped in the shield of the eternal ever loving warm witty kind voice of the people of our earthly island goddess Her.
The difference also being, we are told by the literary Fili poet: "though the bards are not bound to have a knowledge of letters and syllables they must be able to distinguish and recognise correct consonance by ear and by thought."
Powerful a handful of words settles it and there is no disputing from those you'd think would be able to shut up a werking-klaws dirteh lettle common oink spewking with a voice of Lancashababru from Ormskirk bygone times.
Translated by Liam Breatnach, (1987, p98), Uraicecht Na Riar - The Poetic Grades in Early Irish Law. Thus "the essential difference between the Fili and the bard is the latter’s lack of professional training".
Exactly the important point Robert Graves emphasizes in the opening of his first of the 1954/5 Cambridge University Clarke Lectures, with a subject of Professional Standards in English Poetry The Crowning Privilege:
Unlike stockbrokers, soldiers, sailors, doctors, lawyers, and parsons, English poets do not form a closely integrated guild. A poet may put up his brass plate, so to speak, without the tedious preliminaries of attending a university, reading the required books and satisfying examiners. Also, a poet, being responsible to no General Council, and acknowledging no personal superior, can never be unfrocked, cashiered, disbarred, struck off the register, hammered on 'Change, or flogged round the fleet, if he is judged guilty of unpoetic conduct.
The only limits legally set on his activities are the acts relating to libel, pornography, treason, and the endangerment of public order. And if he earns the scorn of his colleagues, what effective sanctionscan they take against him? None at all.
Because the poet is a member of what Graves calls an anarchic profession, their responsibility must be to the Muse alone, and because no guild confers a diploma on English language poets, hence, any literary lummox such as Logan can stamp upon the corporate page as a critic-poet when really s/he is more a satirical troll one can set ourselves up as even though we are merely a second grade taman; middle of the three satirical bardic sub-grades on the 12 year Fili literary poet training course, a second year student full of satirical toxicity, and 'taman' the headless ('trunk' 'stock') state of a decapitated body who ‘assaults everyone with his recitations’, ‘does not make the apportioning of the truth’, will ‘oppress the chiefs of the court’ and ‘spew their brute mouthfuls’.
One below a drisiuc (thorn-bard), the name coming from a doérbard' of the third degree, and a low satirist and lampooner, so called thorn because s/he 'sticks in the face of all.' A trafficker in mockery, as all begin as, satirically sneering at those above us in the tree of literary Filiocht poetry, and coming to learn how to praise after the early satirical grades, and exiting the drisuic grade, that had to have written a total of 20 pieces before s/he could start the studies of the first literary grade, Fochloc, in the third year.
In my third year I was still at the Conceptual and Linguistically Innovative Poetry School, having completed two very joyous straight years Modern American Poetry modules on a Writing Studies BA starting with Pound's A Few Don'ts and working through the American canon and going out the door with the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry taught to us by well known Edge Hill University experimental poet brawlers, Robert Sheppard, and Scott Thurston.
Two very greatly feared London heavyweights, and veterans of many brutal no holds barred intellectual straighteners and poetic dirty fights. Sheppard having gained his reputation as a terrifying boot-bagger of Movement squares when risking everything at the front line of the Earls Court PoSoc Poetry Wars, as an underage mercenary who'd fought his way up from the streets as part of an out of control linguistically dangerous cadre of American poetry inspired outlaws who launched what Charles Osbourne Director of Literature Arts Council of the time, furiously labeled "A treacherous assault on British poetry".
By English poets inspired by the American Black Mountain scene, Objectivists, WCW, New York School and the Beat poets, with the fascist tool Pound their intellectual leader. Which now of course is mainstream, but in 1971 this was treason and the red hippies took over the petty cash tin and drinks budget and the great flowering of the British Poetry Revival occurred led by the 1960's and '70s Fagan of London Poetry's Underworld, the DIY ethos Writers Forum creator, Bob Cobbing.
Commander in Chief of the Rebellion, Eric Mottram, Sheppard's PhD supervisor. Sheppard himself was the very inspiring PhD supervisor of poetry special forces commando Scott Thurston, who when he left Edge HIll's literary SAS training camp muscled in on the toughest patch in England, and carved out his turf in Salford where he gained his current reputation as our now greatly feared and seldom crossed poetic intellectual hard-man whose love for the world's most experimental poetries kick started the Manchester Other Room Scene on the academic cobbles. Pound for pound, one of the toughest most formidably experimental academic avant-garde poetry minds this side of New York.
I have called Logan out years ago, and the genesis of this text was published in 2009 on Harriet Blog at The Donald's lifeless come all ye bland multicultural Foetry Poundation, when the Donald Share was still assistant editor on what was then still Christian Winman's literary showcase for exclusively dead white male Bawsten poetry; calling out the critical poetry clown and literary liquidation expert when I still had four and five years left to study.
Pointing out that the all American bardic buffoon and modernist spewing his brute mouthful of mass mockery without the prerogative of learning but intellect alone, our third-rate drisiuc thorn-bard that sticks in the face of all, is working with only half the ingredients in the poetry kit-bag, the "Fi" of "toxic in satire" and none of the "Li of splendorous praise" which make up the two halves of a superlative literary Fili poet's tongue, 'and it is various the poet speaks'.
Here's a short few lines from the resident know all whose mediocrity knows no bounds:
After the Blitz, her mother had begun an affair. So she said.
No one would have called her wellbred,
but she knew how to fill a low-cut dress,
had a fetching smile and a tongue for success.
...and on and on adinfinitum, no half or slant acoustic concordance and deploying all the plodding amateur rhyming skills and doggerelist intelligence he lambasts the targets of his critical misanthropy for displaying.
I read the Boston spirit strangler's collection of critical carnage and butchery Our Savage Art recently (in 2009, prepping for this inevitable clash), littered with allusions and references to figures from Greek myth, as Logan tried to strike a balance between being bare-knuckle bore and belabouring his points about the fine art of civilised Criticism, seemingly blind to the irony, that most examples of what he is saying about all the poetaster critics of yesteryear - are equally applicable to himself:
"Blackmur, who, though a brilliant critic, was a dreadful poet."
...and quoting Coleridge:
..a critic most hates those who excel in the particular department in which he, the critic, has notoriously been defeated..
The problem with aging two-dimensional ditty makers who have little in the way of poetic talent and lots in the way of attitude, who fall into safe comfortable numbers as the jolly pit-bull critic sneering at all and sundry - is that eventually they become spent grumps and are put out of their misery when a funnier smarter warmer werking-klaws Ormskirk wit enters the ring and knocks them out with the first shlap from the heart and soul of the true people of the goddess Art that leaves the outcome in no doubt when bodies forth into the only loving earthly son of the sacred heart in heaven, mother be the name, filled without and within by and from the eternal faery maternal love all purely Her.
I have stated before, i am keen to debate Logan, with or without literary gloves, anywhere online or in a print venue, but i do not think he has the courage to debate because s/he his mind knows one's own is superior in both intellect and artistry than his is.
WB Logan is a brutal bardic conman, satirical literary lightweight and Filliocht poetry faker, no more a qualified literary Fili poet than i'm a tree who's a planet or a moon fully Spanish; more, he's a weedy armchair wannabe oi wish Rambo who's gob dribbles pap for the Pop Idol audience and generation of second rate satirical ditty readers.
The Werking Krap in Shwelly Voice by William Logan. Critic manque, forgettable ditty maker.
Be Warned. Ye gorra 'av a laff.