Behold this compost
There’s a long thread over at Dana’s joint entitled “Why Poetry is Bullshit.” It’s a list comprising more than a hundred reasons why, all submitted by Dana’s commenters most of whom, I am guessing, are either poets or aficionados of same. It’s wry and depressing and funny, in a despairing sort of way.
I posted a comment over there that I’ve decided to post here, with one minor word choice adjustment.
I’ve been appreciating tetrameter these days. There’s something light and simple about it, straightforward. Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about Philip Larkin, who often used the meter to good effect, most notably in his greatest hit.
Anyway.
Poetry is bullshit, ’cause
it takes the language as it was
and crumples it, all fold and dent
to hide just what the poet meant.
Poetry is bullshit, since
the other poets groan and wince
and say the work is twee, like elves;
and wish they’d written it themselves.
Poetry is bullshit, for
all poets really know the score
and criticize with rueful smirk,
condemned to read each others’ work.
Comments
Chris,
I have e-mailed you - could you possibly check your spam folder? Perhaps it got accidentally spammed in all the excitement of the last few days!
Splendid poem, Chris: cause, since, and for.
Wry, depressing, funny. Yes. All those things. Thanks for taking part.
Too often I’ve been one of those elves… wait, mean other poets…
Very well done, Chris.
Clear and evident through the crumples and dents.
Poetry is bullshit?
Say it isn’t so!
For if there were no poetry,
Where would the poets go?
They’d wander cities aimlessly,
They’d putter here and there.
Soon the world would be a mess
With poets everywhere.
Better keep them locked inside,
‘Neath lamplight’s comely glow,
Struggling to find meter
And perfect the wordy flow.
For if a poet finds no meaning,
And believes her work is shit,
She’s likely to start blogging
for to wallow more in it.
That’s just brilliant, nina. Laughing.
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