Poetry Month
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
April is apparently Poetry Month. I never realized there was such a thing. I thought it was Spring Month, or Showers Month (though I get one in nearly every month). So I got a few links and trips over to the .orgs and .coms of poetry to see what’s happening in the greater poetry world. Um, I’m sorta disappointed. There is some fabulous stuff out there, and some that is pretty, flowery and basic. But the majority of what I encountered was, well, not what I think of when I read poetry.
Here’s what finally prompted me to plug in my 2 cents: http://bibchr.blogspot.com/2008/04/i-dont-get-modern-poetry.html
I won’t claim to be an expert, by any means. The fact that I’ve recorded over 200 poems in various forms doesn’t make me a critic. Or maybe it does, but not any sort of critic who has a voice worth listening to. I know what I like, that’s for certain. I am picky. I seek imagery, first of all, then an emotional tie to the imagery. Some of the stuff that’s floating around the poetosphere is rather hard to swallow. Let me make an example of a few things I read today, using the style and content I feel is equal, rather than quoting directly.
This
poor kid I know
wrote a bad line or
two
Thinking there
was a point that
The diesel mechanic
might get out of
smudgy paper which stinks
if you leave
it in
the trash can
So empty
It and think
about what you just did
Because some
body else is probably
thinking about
what they just
did
So I just sat back
Sat on my living
room chair
And sighed
deflatorily commentious
because
I saw all this
on TV
You see what I see? This is the content. Now I see some of the same in my own work. But I see in my work a manipulation of words and breath, an intent to draw multiple images from two sentences that aren’t punctuated for that very purpose. Maybe that’s what others are doing and I just don’t see what they see?
I try not for measure but rhythm. I try to write for a span of words that draw a real, palpable emotional image. Sometimes it becomes a real image in itself.
But why talk about some dude and his car and a rap song and what-not, using truncated sentences just to make 50 lines of poetry that neither rhyme, draw a meaningful picture or anything? Capturing a teenager, his ‘tude, his hanging out at the mall with his friends and his brand-name articles, splitting the 100 words or so into bite sized pieces and calling it poetry just defeats me.
Maybe I’m just off in my own dimension, with my own views. Maybe I just ain’t on the same wavelength as the writers of these works that I don’t get. If that’s the case, then maybe somebody has the same idea of my own poetry, which makes it all fair and square. Easy enough.
I’ve been to a poetry reading, a few, actually. The stuff I’ve heard read there has rarely been more than some guy spouting about being dissed or getting beat up or something. Am I a rare breed who actually feels more than the superficial things of pac-man t-shirts, happy-meals and what kind of car you’re driving? Or am I just obtuse like every other poet. So obtuse as to be just like the rest of them… unintelligible to all but myself?
Below are a couple of links to my likes and dislikes. I took completely from random, using none of my personal favorite artists in the examples. I also tried not to classify them as good or bad by their subject (unless it was just plain unreasonably dumb), but by their imagery and all that other stuff I think is important for a poem. If you see a comparison, that maybe I’m over critical or maybe right, let me know. I can always use some humbling. I can also use some confirmation that I’m not insane and that there are some pretty crummy examples of poetic travesty out there. There are two rules about poetry. One of them I’ve broken a few times.
One: Never read your poetry aloud. You sound stupid. Get somebody else to do it and suddenly it sounds unbelievable.
Two: If you’re a famous poet before you’re dead, you probably stink. If you’re a famous poet after you’re dead, you might stink. The fundamental fact is that your readers determine whether you stink, not you.
because you think, therefore I stink or do not stink, not because I am. But my reading aloud stinks regardless.
LIKES
LUING
The Gardener 38
Sonnet LXIV
Our Fear
Ring out, wild bells
DISLIKES
Beauty
Family
From This Height
NOT SURE
oh antic God
Heaven
Windchime
The Emperor’s Dream
Searching these out, just at random, I realize that poetry is pretty durned subjective. So I’ll stick with my preferences, remove my foot from the circle of engagement. I’ll leave all this stuff here for readers, because it’s good to pay attention to the rest of what’s going on around us. I sure could use a round-trip through reality’s network. My stuff is great, to me, to you, but not necessarily to you. Their stuff is just the same. I don’t get it all, but a pulitzer prize for writing about chickens in tights with bling and a falchion, riding bayliners through the skies must mean something, somewhere, to somebody. ( I made that one up).
So this post is mostly nonsense. Fitting, int it?