"Less kvetching about 'why no one reads poetry.' First of all, they DO, and second, just shuddupaboudit. It’s like having a party and buttonholing your guests about why nobody came."
I can vouch for this one - I was back at Open Books poetry store yesterday and there were a dozen people in and out just in the time I was there. Not just profs and grey-hairs, either - out of town dudes my age impressed that Seattle was cool enough to have a bookstore JUST for poetry. I was a little shocked.
"A vast expanse of expansiveness. Why are poets, of all people, complaining that too much poetry is being published? Let’s have less of the hyenas round the dried-up old watering hole trope, and more of the old spirit of plenty. The kind of plenty that comes from within. Generosity."
It seems a little too much to expect generosity from writers, least of all when it comes to pride of place. But it sure would be nice. I'm always amazed that it's often the most revered and established writers grousing about the young whipper-snappers and how there's too much being published today. You'd think it would be the new up-and-comers trying to knock out the competition, but from what I can tell, many see themselves as part of the attempt to make the tide rise which lifts all boats.
"A place in the general intellectual discourse of the day. Poets would be interested in other things besides poetry. They would stop ghettoising themselves in little poetry magazines that only poets read, similar to stamp-collecting or anorak-spotting. Then the general readers would be less afraid of a closed club. Poets would regain some of their place in the popular imagination – not all of us, to be sure – and the status would rise."
I think this is spot-on. If poets were less insular and cliqueish, if they attempted to speak from their experience and talent to engage the wider world of discourse, maybe poetry wouldn't be seen as so puzzling and worthless. Once upon a time, any well-educated member of society was expected to not just reel off a verse or two, but be able to compose a sonnet on command. (This led to lots of crappy sonnets, but once again, better too much than too little.)
And when all else fails, we (and by this I mean "I") can always remember that there are bigger and more important things going on in the world than literary squabbles. Here's a nice reminder from something I flipped through at Open Books.
The War Works Hard
Dunya Mikhail, translated from the Arabic by Elizabeth Winslow
How eager
and efficient!
Early in the morning
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances
to various places
swings corpses through the air
rolls stretchers to the wounded
summons rain
from the eyes of mothers
digs into the earth
dislodging many things
from under the ruins...
Some are lifeless and glistening
others are pale and still throbbing...
It produces the most questions
in the minds of children
entertains the gods
by shooting fireworks and missiles
into the sky
sows mines in the fields
and reaps punctures and blisters
urges families to emigrate
stands beside the clergymen
as they curse the devil
(poor devil, he remains
with one hand in the searing fire)...
The war continues working, day and night.
It inspires tyrants
to deliver long speeches
awards medals to generals
and themes to poets
it contributes to the industry
of artificial limbs
provides food for flies
adds pages to the history books
achieves equality
between killer and killed
teaches lovers to write letters
accustoms young women to waiting
fills the newspapers
with articles and pictures
builds new houses
for the orphans
invigorates the coffin makers
gives grave diggers
a pat on the back
and paints a smile on the leader's face.
It works with unparalleled diligence!
Yet no one gives it
a word of praise.
No comments:
Post a Comment