Friday, March 05, 2004
Pop Jealousy
I took an upper-level poetry class last year. There were roughly 15 students in the class, which was led by a respected professor who remained very current on the genre and had published many of her own poems.
On the upside, the class was extremely informative and influential. While I could detect a sense of degree to the talent in the room, I think every student was a writer. That's not the case with intro classes, in which many students enroll, simply to fulfill a requirement or satisfy their curiosity. I read many different styles of poetry, and I learned about many different schools of poetry. What's more, I constantly felt like the "weak link" in the room, so I worked harder than ever to bring my work up to a level I would feel comfortable at presenting my work to the class (as that was a requirement -- the course was a writing lab). I left the class a better writer, I saved almost every paper or handout that I received, and I work more consciously on poetry from then on, than I did before the class.
That's a hell of an upside.
On the downside, I learned -- or gained a greater understanding of -- why so many people dislike poetry. Why? What's one thing that turns people off from poetry? I call it the "poetic attitude". By that, I mean the attitude that, "This poem is very 'deep' and symbolic and literary and to appreciate it, you must approach it from a very learned, liberal, academic experience, otherwise you simply would not understand."
For instance: on a daily basis, the prof asked everyone if they had any news on the poetry scene. What had we read recently? Who had we seen read? Etc, etc. If the class did not bring anything to the table, she would frown, shake her head, offer us all the interesting tidbits she'd learned, the poets she'd spoken with, and then she would chide us for not participating in the poetic community.
And she knew everyone. She'd met, spoken with, had a drink with, seen read at, edited a journal with, dedicated a poem to, received a phone call from, everyone, everyone, everyone. And when anyone in the class mentioned a poet, she would interrupt with a story about that time that she met him, or the person she knew who shared a cab with her, or etc, etc.
At times it was interesting, enlightening, or funny. But it always grew tedious. Then something funny happened. She asked everyone to bring in a recent poem they'd read that they'd enjoyed. I brought in a very clipped poem by Charles Tomlinson. I didn't particularly like the poem, but I respected it. I was in a very clipped mood. So the great day came. Everyone brought their poems. And one after another, we all read, interrupted only by the prof's effusive praise about how she loves this poem, or I'm so glad you brought in a Neruda, or etc, etc. When my turn came, I read the Tomlinson poem, and the room went silent. I looked at the prof. She was frowning, looking at the copy I had procured. Then she said, in her most definitive voice, as if this was to be the last word on the poem: "I have not heard of the poet." And that was that.
My poem -- and poet -- was not well-received because he was not popular. So be it.
The course went on, I learned to live with the poetic attitude, and the semester progressed. I was still very motivated to not fall on my face in the class, so I spent a great deal of time preparing an extensive, class-long presentation on a school of poetry I was to give (everyone chose a school to present for an hour to the rest of the class; my report ended up being around 15 pages). Apart from being intimidated, I also knew I would have to work hard to earn a B or A because this was my first class with the prof, who was well-known to the other students. See, I was her Charles Tomlinson poem. She did not know me. She had not read any of my work. She had "not heard of" me, as she had the other students. So my day came, and I surprised myself by scoring quite well. It was one of those legitimate A's -- it was a tough project, but you worked hard, you earned it.
But as time passed, only three or four other students prepared reports as long or detailed. "Where was the poetic work ethic to match all this attitude?" I wondered. Some students didn't even prepare research -- they simply hit the print button on their web browser, and handed in a four-page bio from an obscure website with no documentation. The prof didn't seem to mind. She had heard of these poets being presented. She had heard of the student presenter. A.
Sour grapes, I know. But the course moved on.
I didn't speak very often during the course. I also arrived from work, so I was always dressed up more than everyone else. So I stuck out a bit. I certainly didn't look or sound like a poet. And that was fine with me. But one day, I broke down. I just couldn't take it anymore.
We were going around the table, giving feedback on a poem. This was usually instructive, as people offered opinions on word choice, grammar, sound, enjambment, rhythm, subject, influence, structure, creativity, and the list goes on and on. On this particular day, the class seemed stuck on one point -- they disagreed with the rhyme in a poem (the poem we read contained some slant rhyme, but could still be considered a free verse poem). Everyone seemed to agree that the rhyme was . . . unpleasant. The looks on their faces as they discussed the rhyme of the poem was no different than the look of someone who just discovered what that funky smell was in the back of the refrigerator. Rhyming committed poetry's (or more accurately, "poetic attitude's") cardinal sin: it was out of fashion. So I sat there, thinking -- I'm not a fan of rhyming either. It can be annoying, as it draws the reader's attention away from the subject and focuses it on the end-line sound. It's hard to write; it can feel limiting. Nevertheless -- what about Shakespeare? What about Browning? What about Milton? What about St. Vincent Millay? What about Roethke? They all rhymed. Even if their work didn't make it to my desktop on a daily basis, I respected it. It was time to speak up. So I turned to the prof and asked:
"Why is rhyme considered such a negative?"
She drew herself in, her chest raised, and her eyes and voice gained a look and tone that implied, "The rest of us already know this, but . . ." Then she said: "Rhyming gives poetry a 'pop' sensation, lowering it to the level of a song. We can hear songs on the radio. It can be mindless." The class glowered in agreement.
So rhyming was no longer acceptable because it was too familiar with the popular. But wasn't the Tomlinson poem not well-received because it . . . was not popular?
So between the unpopular and the popular, lies poetry, all alone with its particular attitude to entertain itself.
But there is a lie within all this attitude. And that lie is desire. I'd wager my home that the vast majority of poets would delight in having a book of poems published. And I can't imagine any of these poets complaining if their books sold well. Rather, I think most poets would be ecstatic if their work became popular. Furthermore, I think that if Poet Joe's new book of poems was featured on Oprah, CNN, Dateline, and who knows what else, so that the non-poetry-buying public suddenly became interested, I think that Poet Joe would be on top of the world. And I don't think he would refuse any royalty checks.
It's easy to decry "popular" when you are not popular. No poet energized a crowd of people with a line like, "Shake it like a Polaroid picture." But there are thousands of people who will remember that line, but could not, if asked, name the US poet laureate. And, between you and me, constant reader, that drives the poets up the wall.
On the upside, the class was extremely informative and influential. While I could detect a sense of degree to the talent in the room, I think every student was a writer. That's not the case with intro classes, in which many students enroll, simply to fulfill a requirement or satisfy their curiosity. I read many different styles of poetry, and I learned about many different schools of poetry. What's more, I constantly felt like the "weak link" in the room, so I worked harder than ever to bring my work up to a level I would feel comfortable at presenting my work to the class (as that was a requirement -- the course was a writing lab). I left the class a better writer, I saved almost every paper or handout that I received, and I work more consciously on poetry from then on, than I did before the class.
That's a hell of an upside.
On the downside, I learned -- or gained a greater understanding of -- why so many people dislike poetry. Why? What's one thing that turns people off from poetry? I call it the "poetic attitude". By that, I mean the attitude that, "This poem is very 'deep' and symbolic and literary and to appreciate it, you must approach it from a very learned, liberal, academic experience, otherwise you simply would not understand."
For instance: on a daily basis, the prof asked everyone if they had any news on the poetry scene. What had we read recently? Who had we seen read? Etc, etc. If the class did not bring anything to the table, she would frown, shake her head, offer us all the interesting tidbits she'd learned, the poets she'd spoken with, and then she would chide us for not participating in the poetic community.
And she knew everyone. She'd met, spoken with, had a drink with, seen read at, edited a journal with, dedicated a poem to, received a phone call from, everyone, everyone, everyone. And when anyone in the class mentioned a poet, she would interrupt with a story about that time that she met him, or the person she knew who shared a cab with her, or etc, etc.
At times it was interesting, enlightening, or funny. But it always grew tedious. Then something funny happened. She asked everyone to bring in a recent poem they'd read that they'd enjoyed. I brought in a very clipped poem by Charles Tomlinson. I didn't particularly like the poem, but I respected it. I was in a very clipped mood. So the great day came. Everyone brought their poems. And one after another, we all read, interrupted only by the prof's effusive praise about how she loves this poem, or I'm so glad you brought in a Neruda, or etc, etc. When my turn came, I read the Tomlinson poem, and the room went silent. I looked at the prof. She was frowning, looking at the copy I had procured. Then she said, in her most definitive voice, as if this was to be the last word on the poem: "I have not heard of the poet." And that was that.
My poem -- and poet -- was not well-received because he was not popular. So be it.
The course went on, I learned to live with the poetic attitude, and the semester progressed. I was still very motivated to not fall on my face in the class, so I spent a great deal of time preparing an extensive, class-long presentation on a school of poetry I was to give (everyone chose a school to present for an hour to the rest of the class; my report ended up being around 15 pages). Apart from being intimidated, I also knew I would have to work hard to earn a B or A because this was my first class with the prof, who was well-known to the other students. See, I was her Charles Tomlinson poem. She did not know me. She had not read any of my work. She had "not heard of" me, as she had the other students. So my day came, and I surprised myself by scoring quite well. It was one of those legitimate A's -- it was a tough project, but you worked hard, you earned it.
But as time passed, only three or four other students prepared reports as long or detailed. "Where was the poetic work ethic to match all this attitude?" I wondered. Some students didn't even prepare research -- they simply hit the print button on their web browser, and handed in a four-page bio from an obscure website with no documentation. The prof didn't seem to mind. She had heard of these poets being presented. She had heard of the student presenter. A.
Sour grapes, I know. But the course moved on.
I didn't speak very often during the course. I also arrived from work, so I was always dressed up more than everyone else. So I stuck out a bit. I certainly didn't look or sound like a poet. And that was fine with me. But one day, I broke down. I just couldn't take it anymore.
We were going around the table, giving feedback on a poem. This was usually instructive, as people offered opinions on word choice, grammar, sound, enjambment, rhythm, subject, influence, structure, creativity, and the list goes on and on. On this particular day, the class seemed stuck on one point -- they disagreed with the rhyme in a poem (the poem we read contained some slant rhyme, but could still be considered a free verse poem). Everyone seemed to agree that the rhyme was . . . unpleasant. The looks on their faces as they discussed the rhyme of the poem was no different than the look of someone who just discovered what that funky smell was in the back of the refrigerator. Rhyming committed poetry's (or more accurately, "poetic attitude's") cardinal sin: it was out of fashion. So I sat there, thinking -- I'm not a fan of rhyming either. It can be annoying, as it draws the reader's attention away from the subject and focuses it on the end-line sound. It's hard to write; it can feel limiting. Nevertheless -- what about Shakespeare? What about Browning? What about Milton? What about St. Vincent Millay? What about Roethke? They all rhymed. Even if their work didn't make it to my desktop on a daily basis, I respected it. It was time to speak up. So I turned to the prof and asked:
"Why is rhyme considered such a negative?"
She drew herself in, her chest raised, and her eyes and voice gained a look and tone that implied, "The rest of us already know this, but . . ." Then she said: "Rhyming gives poetry a 'pop' sensation, lowering it to the level of a song. We can hear songs on the radio. It can be mindless." The class glowered in agreement.
So rhyming was no longer acceptable because it was too familiar with the popular. But wasn't the Tomlinson poem not well-received because it . . . was not popular?
So between the unpopular and the popular, lies poetry, all alone with its particular attitude to entertain itself.
But there is a lie within all this attitude. And that lie is desire. I'd wager my home that the vast majority of poets would delight in having a book of poems published. And I can't imagine any of these poets complaining if their books sold well. Rather, I think most poets would be ecstatic if their work became popular. Furthermore, I think that if Poet Joe's new book of poems was featured on Oprah, CNN, Dateline, and who knows what else, so that the non-poetry-buying public suddenly became interested, I think that Poet Joe would be on top of the world. And I don't think he would refuse any royalty checks.
It's easy to decry "popular" when you are not popular. No poet energized a crowd of people with a line like, "Shake it like a Polaroid picture." But there are thousands of people who will remember that line, but could not, if asked, name the US poet laureate. And, between you and me, constant reader, that drives the poets up the wall.
