Poetry is Dead

Most people dislike poetry. We study it in school, we invariably write some here and there, and we, in general, only read it when it's printed inside the CD label.

Poetry is no more alive or dead than it has always been.

Hmmmm, I never really thought about it (as is the case with the majority of my posts – my thoughts are mine but until I actually take a minute, analyze them and then write them down, I have basically been unaware of them lurking underneath my cracked skull) but I see now that Haskins and LieselGarmach are right and thought really is required when reading and enjoying True Poetry.

Funny, but I'd never realized that.

Thinking upon it, I think the decline of poetry is a natural side effect of the decline of reading comprehension and word skills in our schools and in our youth. Combined with the media influence factors mentioned also, of course.

The lack of enthusiasm for poetry, I think, also resides in the fact that it is not "cool". Society's norms have shifted away from appreciation of the written word in favor of the visual and aural.

I can't help but feel that if " Effective Rap Lyrics: How to Use Metaphors" and "How to Add Conflict and Sizzle to Your Video Game Story Structure" were courses, kids would excel.

Poetry

I don't think poetry is dead. I don't think it's even sick. I do think there's so much crap out there pretending to be poetry that no one can find the good stuff without serious effort. It's more than just a lack of rules, though that is part of the problem; it's a lack of even the simplest knowledge about what is and isn't poetry, or is and isn't even a decent sentence.

But poetry is in no way dead. Making money has seldom been the poet's lot, but a great deal of excellent poetry is still being written, and is still being read, even if big bucks aren't connected with it.

Deep thought is also alive and well. It gathers in a wide variety of venues, from smokey pool halls to quiet river banks. It's also justifiably jaded and tends to choose its own company most of the time.

William Haskins said:

and (quick apology in advance to any slammers) the merging of poetry and performance dilutes and cheapens the writing, because it compensates often bad writing with moody pretention or "you go girl" attitude.

their intentions are good, i think, but the result is mostly disappointing.

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I stopped going to slams because the audience rewards performance over composition. A so-so poet can bring down the house with a great delivery, while a mumbler with a brilliant poem gets a lukewarm (or negative) response.

Even worse, many slam poets overuse dramatic pauses and end up sounding like William Shatner.

(My apologies to all the good slam poets out there and William Shatner.)

Jackie

William Haskins said:

no, it's "profits". a play on words.

it's a statement on the commercialization of art.

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A converse of the Grateful Dead's "Estimated Prophet"...

I kinda wonder what specifically brought this on. Was it the "expositional poetry" thread, or was it the poems in the poetry forum, or was it really just an out-of-the-blue reaction to pop-culture poetry?

(Hmm. Maybe it's dangerous to ask. Maybe Haskins will tell me I had my head up my a$$ in a most annoying way, and it's all my fault.)

-Tony

Funny, as I logged on tonight, I was thinking of a couple of my favorite poems.

thistle said:

I disagree, Roger. William Shakespeare wrote in blank verse and his images, words, meter, make his work poetic.

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My point is that at one time, poetry was a pastime for the common man. Rhyme and meter helped people memorize poems in a time the reading and printing were fairly rare. They were devices that helped unlearned people remember poems.

My mother-in-law has many books of poetry: Riley, Longfellow, Poe, and the like. Most of her generation read poetry. Today few ordinary people do. That this shift coincided with a shift to free verse is, I believe, not a coincidence.

When I was in school, (nearly 30 years ago) we studied and memorized poems.

"Into the night that covers me, black as a pit from pole to pole. I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul." --Invictus (Henley)

"In Flanders fields the poppies grow, between the crosses row on row. That mark our place, and in the sky the larks still bravely singing fly...." -- In Flanders Fields (McCrae)

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said: 'This is my home, my native land..." -- Lay of the Last Minstrel (Scott)

"Whan that April with his shoures sotte, the droughte of March hath perced to the roote. And bathed every vein with swich licour, Of which, verto engendred is the flour." --Prologue to the Canterbury Tales (Chaucer)

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore..." -- The Raven (Poe)

"I'm only thus an idiot. That's what folks calls a feller what ain't got no mind of any kind and don't know nothing he's forgot. I'm one of them..." --The Idiot (Riley)

I just typed these from memory, so there may be mistakes (especially in Chaucer). There are many more tucked away in my memory. The only reason I can do that is because of the rhyme and meter. It is BECAUSE of them that poetry was accessable to common people. With the wholesale takeover of free verse, poetry is lost on most people. It has become an elitist artform.

So when poets moan that they cannot sell poetry, that they have to self-publish in order to see print, it is a matter of their own doing. Art is still subject the the market, and as with any product, if you ignore your customers, you're going to lose market-share.

Hmmm, here's a little article kinda related to this thread:

"Poetry is being ruined by establishment"

http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,6109,1441234,00.html

William, like you, I always considered the act of reading poetry to be a solitary, introspective act. I liked poetry that speaks to me, that touches a chord in me, but, this past spring, I was in a Lit Theory class and the instructor put a poem on the projector and read it out loud at the end of class -- we'd been studying the author and his theories on criticism that evening -- and we were all laughing out loud. A poem that would've been flat on the page was hilarious when read out loud, as it was meant to be, because of the author's word choices and the rhythm he had chosen. And, admittedly, I sometimes get the biggest stir out of my favorite poems when I read them out loud to myself. Sometimes, poetry is just more infectious when spoken.

Question for William and everyone else. What are some of your favorite poems, if you don't mind sharing?

Favorite Poems

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
(Complete poem available at RobertWService.com.)


La plaza tiene una torre
Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

La plaza tiene una torre,
la torre tiene un balcón,
el balcón tiene una dama,
la dama una blanca flor.

Ha pasado un caballero.
¿Quién sabe por qué pasó?
Y se ha llevado la plaza,
con su torre y su balcón,
con su balcón y su dama,
su dama y su blanca flor.

English Translation:
The plaza has a tower,
The tower has a balcony,
The balcony has a lady,
The lady a white flower.

A knight passed by.
Who know why he went by?
And he carried away the plaza,
With its tower and its balcony,
With its balcony and its lady,
Its lady and her white flower.


"To See a World..."
by William Blake

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

The Betrothed, by Rudyard Kipling

[size=-1]“You must choose between me and your cigar.”
— Breach of Promise Case, circa 1885.

[/size][size=+2]O[/size]PEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o’er a good cheroot,
And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie’s face.

Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie’s a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There’s peace in a Larranaga, there’s calm in a Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away—

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown—
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty—grey and dour and old—
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love’s torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar—

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket—
With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and black to the socket!

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manila—there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee’s passion—to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o’ Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,
But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew—
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows.
If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie for Spouse!

It's Just So....ME!

Warning



When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.



You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.



But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.



But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.





Jenny Joseph

My favourite peom of all time (probably because at the moment it strikes the very core of my thoughts) is

Politics by William Butler Yeats -

How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

Sums growing up quite well I think.

Nique

More Yeats!

Thanks for bringing up Yeats!

Here's another of his gems - solace in an unfair world:

To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing

Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honour bred, with one
Who, were it proved he lies,
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbours' eyes?
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.

I recited it for a Toastmasters assignment -- none of them understood. If I can't make Yeats' words reach an audience, there's no hope for me as an orator....

I have a lot of favorites, but one that I can never get out of my head is When We Two Parted, by Byron. I read it in high school and it's been with me ever since.

When We Two Parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met:
In silence I grieve
That they heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee,
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

My favorite, next to Inferno and The Iliad:

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[size=+3]I[/size]n Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A Damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Rob

And....

Annabel Lee- Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee.
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee,
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee,
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

robeiae said:

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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One of my favorites, too Rob. This is the first piece I ever used at a poetry reading, memorized. What a great poem!