So feel free to offer your thoughts. I have the skin of dead elephant.
Poetry... Just
mentioning it conjures up images of lengthy assignments from an out
of touch teacher who farts rhyme and dust. Maybe it brings to mind
boring images of proclaimed love from one to another, ultimately lost
on anyone else who reads it. Of course, there is the angsty teenage
“my life sucks, suicide is the only solution” poem which no one
gets except people who dress and look like Wednesday from the Addams
Family. All of that can make the average person run away from poetry.
Poetry is mostly
read by those who write it. Or so it seems. However, there is new
breed of poet. The type of poet that screams to be read, but does not
study or read other poets.
This breed is a
pox on those of us who identify ourselves as poets. They are the
people who flood the internet with some of the most godawful poetry
ever. The real poets that I know and the dead poets (yeah, I just did
that) all studied other poets and are /were inspired by them.
Now, I do not
claim to be a great poet; nor do I claim to even be a good poet. I
have written some shitty poems. Most of these have been written in a
drunken stupor. After sobering up and reading the drunken scribbles I
had enough mercy on myself and others to discard the poem into the
trash, hoping it is not found on an archaeological dig some thousands
of years later.
But I do have a
list of poets I read on a regular basis. Great Poets. I don't just
read them. I study their form. Let's face it, all good poets have
form. I like to see how words are used, played with, manipulated into
something that has the power to move the soul. The mental picture that
I have had for years is that of the poet as a blacksmith; pounding
out words with a hammer and the sweat of their brow. Poetry is a work
that can drain a spirit and kill the faint of heart.
That brings me to
a recent phenomenon. That of the internet poetry chatrooms and
Facebook groups. Let me say that I do not think there is anything
wrong with these sorts of forums. What I have a problem with is that
there is no criticism of some really bad poetry. It's less a forum to
make one a better poet and more some cyber circle jerk where everyone
is a winner. It is in these forums where I find the the pimple on the
ass of poetry.....the poet who does not read other poets..even the
ones they are reading in the forums. These “poets” frequently
post things like, “Great poem dude” and “Loved it” mere
seconds after someone posts the poem. No, they are there for one
thing only. And that is praise for mediocre, at best, poetry. I must
warn you though, do not offer anything other than praises. The first
time you tell these fragile punks that “hmm, did nothing for me”
you are turned into the administrator for possible banishment.
Thin skinned
little pricks if you ask me.
Years ago, before
the internet made the submission process faster, I submitted a couple
of poems to some editor in New York. During that time I had been
submitting everywhere. One day I went to the mailbox and inside was a
letter from this editor. I was expecting a form rejection letter.
What I found, after opening the letter, was a handwritten note:
Mr Scott,
What in the hell
was that? May I suggest that the next time you send anything that you
first use a type writer. Your handwriting looks like it was written
by a skid row drunk. Secondly, if you want to be a poet please take
the time to read other poets. After reading, okay, deciphering your
scribbles, I can see that you have heart and quite possibly
potential. However, what you submitted is shit. When you get serious
please send it my way. Until then save your postage money for
something else.
Sincerely,
Mr New York Editor
I will always
remember that letter. I do not remember even sending to that guy. He
had the decency to not return whatever it was I submitted. That
period in my life was spent drunk and what not. It was common for me
to get drunk, write a few poems and send them to some editor I found
in the back of writer magazines. I had a lot of rejection letters.
Still do. Now, when one bites I feel a little apprehensive; as if it
is some sort of cosmic joke. I wouldn't have it any other way. It is
much better to have people tell what they think than to have them lie
to you.
So to you little
emotionally needy poets out there blowing smoke up one anothers asses
my advice is this: grow a pair and read some other poets.
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked
down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking
at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon
fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at
night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!
--and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking
among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?
What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,
and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy
tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the
cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and
feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade
to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo-
biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America
did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a
smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of
Lethe? - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15306#sthash.DcxSJlW8.dpuf
© Charles Scott 2014
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