Thank God That’s Over

Another National Poetry Month is behind us, and it went pretty much as I thought it would. I saw little or no mention of poetry in mainstream media, and Terry Gross interviewed Natasha Tretheway in nap-inducing fashion. Which is fine, really, because I don’t particularly want to see poems and poets filtered through the hysteria of, say, Hardball with Chris Matthews.

My April was mostly devoted to piles of papers and finals and hysterical (in both senses) student emails and, while it’s all still fresh, a reevaluation of my courses and materials and methods. I’m sure those of you who have been teaching freshman-level composition courses for at least a decade have noticed some changes in incoming classes, changes that are incongruent with the hype about “the internet generation,” etc. But that will be for another, lengthier post in the near future.

May is for decompressing, writing, and catching up on some books. The current stack: Michael Catherwood, Dare; John Hennessy, Bridge and Tunnel, Beth Ann Fennelly, Unmentionables.

April Is National Writing About National Poetry Month Month

This April, Americans will celebrate National Poetry Month in the same way they have since it was introduced in 1996, by ignoring poetry even more than they do the rest of the year and watching baseball. That probably won’t stop NPR’s Terry Gross from interviewing Billy Collins (and/or current laureate Natasha Trethewey) in her patented, over-reverent tone that — like the idea of National Poetry Month itself — only reinforces the image of poets as the polar bears of literature: majestic, endangered, and far away.

Of course I have no problem with a few more people buying a few more poetry books or attending one of the 30,000 (or so) additional readings scheduled for April. But National [Anything] Month smacks of “raising awareness,” and National Poetry Month’s very existence signifies that many Americans are indeed aware of poetry — they’ve simply decided they can live without it.

Bully for them.

 

Apoetic

It is everything
not just a NY thing

It has a character
見    (pronounced me)

that means both
show and see

It does not recollect
or plan a) like creation

Ruin by ruin it strives
for the new     flourishes

as one whose spirit
is scattered flowers

It is a light
pervading

It brings the zafu to the top
of the whoopee-cushion

__

When Poets Attack

Apparently there was something of a little dust-up at one of this year’s AWP panels on the subject of “accessibility” in poetry, or the lack thereof. I wasn’t there, but I’m pretty sure no poets (or poems) were harmed.

Personally, I find these kinds of debates somewhat tedious because

1. They presume poetry is an endangered species that must be vigilantly protected lest it go extinct. It’s not, and it won’t.
2. They rarely, if ever, seem to address the real underlying issue, which is not what kind of poetry should be written (and read, and taught…) but who gets to decide. 

But mostly I just think the whole accessible/inaccessible thing is a false dichotomy: If your building doesn’t have a ramp, it’s not up to code; if it does, it can’t be art.

John Gallaher’s blog post on the event.
A very interesting essay on “accessibility” linked to in said thread.
Scarriet weighs in.

Thank You, Mr. Young

[M]ost books about writing are filled with bullshit.
–Stephen King

True, that. Except in the case of Dean Young’s The Art of Recklessness, Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction (I know, it’s been in print since 2010 – a decade in internet years – but perhaps it flew under your radar as well). Free of prescription, proscription, self-help-isms, grenade-lobbing, and, thank god, Zen, it is one of those rare books that – for writers and readers of poetry – hits the RESET button.

Everybody Hates Christian

Christian Ward & Helen Mort

British “poet” Christian Ward has been outed as a serial plagiarist. If you scroll down to the comments on the article, you can watch as Ward himself continues to dig his own hole.

I’m no psychoanalyst, but because stealing another’s work is a cardinal sin among artists of any stripe — punishable these days by immediate worldwide humiliation — the only motivation I can see for doing so is some deep-seated personal “issue.” To the rational, there is no publication or prize that is worth the risk. Which is exactly why it’s possible to get away with it (who in their right minds would steal poems?) at least long enough to embarrass everyone involved.

The good news: Christian Ward got caught and, barring cosmetic surgery and a name change, will likely live in permanent literary exile. The bad news: publishers might now feel compelled to spend time Googling submissions before signing even the smallest checks.