She looked more like my mother

My aunt looked more lik mother than  mother did herself

She was not averse to smiling and using emotional wealth

Her eyes were blue like summer especially when she  smiled

Her hair was brown and curly, but never excessively styled

Her arms were plump and rounded and so they matched her face.

How I longed to lose myself in her deep embrace.

Her husband was on the railways he never earned that much

She brought him just two children they lived on tea and cake

She had not got much money but sheb knew very well how to bake

She never knew I loved her so, that was my mistake

She looked quite like my mother but alas she was my aunt.

We never shared our feelings. this is my lament

Again and again and again

Our brother, Aneurin Bevan,  we can feel your pain

There is no fun,  what will be done

On earth, especially in Britain?

Give us this day our daily bread, save us from 1 losing our free bus passes

Forgive us our mistakes as we forgive those who mistake us

We  unconsciously wanted the kingdom  the power suits and the glory

Forgive us our naivety,

Save us from our own evil

Amen

Thrasonical

 

Monday, December 12, 2016
thrasonical
Definitions for thrasonical
  1. boastful; vainglorious.
Citations for thrasonical

His humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical.William Shakespeare,st, 1598 Love’s Labour’s Lo

… [The audience] howled its delight over the ignominy of Pantaloon, the buffooneries of his sprightly lackey Harlequin, and the thrasonical strut and bellowing fierceness of the cowardly Rhodomont.Rafael Sabatini, Scaramouche: A Romance of the French Revolution, 1921

Origin of thrasonical
1555-1565
The Greek original for the Latin New Comedy character Thraso is Thrásōn, a stock character in New Comedy for a boastful soldier. The Greek name means “braggart” and is a derivative of the adjective thrasýs meaning “bold, confident, arrogant, insolent.” The most distinguished use of thrasonical is in Rosalind’s speech in Shakespeare’s As You Like It (1616), “…Caesar’s thrasonical brag of ‘I came, saw, and / overcame’…” The word entered English in the mid-1500s.

The wronged kindness of  nonsense 

In the haunted pub
We ate hot food and wondered
What is common sense?

In the sky ,snow hung
The  park was  icy and black
The farm was quiet

What is common? Sense?
What have we lost since that time?
Now we live nonsense.

Where is the humour?
The wronged kindness of  nonsense
The futility

Who says what is true?
Who speaks what is  silent , lost?
Who is the channel?

What is true has left.
“Maybe” hangs from black branches
Like dead fruit or  leaf

The autumn  orange
The senselessness of speeches
The withering   glance

The edge  of our  land
Borders are  more anguished
Cannot connect us

New laws and rules
Trial  by separation
The barbed rust   pierces

There is no heartland
There is no inside at all
Nowhere to  live well

 

 

 

Humour and poetry

img_20190510_163949https://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2010/04/humor-and-poetry

Extract:

In 1993, I took a left turn one day out of my MFA program and found myself at the National Poetry Slam in San Francisco. There I discovered several poets who were funny for the sake of being funny. Particularly Hal Sirowitz from New York (“don’t stick your arm out the window, mother said” and Matt Cook from Milwaukee (“it was easy to write the Great American Novel, back when there were only five American novels”) Both poets initially delighted me and confounded me: There are no similes, a voice in my head said. What would Tom Lux (my first teacher) say? the voice continued. Despite my resistance, I believe those poets gave me a kind of permission to explore humor a little more vigorously in my second book, The Forgiveness Parade (1998), for “I thought the word loin and the word lion were the same thing. I thought celibate was a kind of fish”. Perhaps in that book there were places where I was too vigorous in my pursuit: looking back there are a few poems that are just a little too jokey somehow, a little one-dimensional.

I am becoming aware of how some humor can set a roadblock for the poetic speaker, making it impossible for the speaker to get back to a serious place. And how some other (less frequent) uses of humor can leave that door open. I want to leave that door open

Bless the hand that points us past the known

I cannot mend the lamp that we both chose
The top and bottom split when  he fell down
But I can make it look as if it glows

The candle burns, has fragrance of a rose
That takes away my sadness and my frown
I cannot mend the lamp that we both chose

I find it hard to  bear the pain of loss
The concept is  more verbal than it’s noun
But in my home  the candle  brightly glows

In Blythburgh church, a lighted candle  bless
See the painted angels and their crowns!
I  will bear this breakage and its cost

I will get the strength to bear my cross
Oh,haul me, holy one, if I fall down.
Beyond  these lights we sense  the Light of God

Bless the hand that points us past the known
Where each of us must travel, perhaps alone
I cannot mend our lamp that we both chose
I  wander in my grief amongst the low

Silent Night

Evoking the beauty of the stars far away,
I like to watch geese at the end of the day.
Patterns and poems disclose other worlds.
Feel the hand of a baby with the fingers all curled

See the trust and the smile when the mother is home,
To create entire worlds for the one she has borne.
For chaos and panic or not far away
Even in adults who don’t care to say.

The little hands touch me so deeply, so well;
How come the world is diving to hell?
How can we kill little wains by the score
Was it for this that I opened your door?

Was it for this that love electrified us,
And we were lost in each other, in the holy white dove.
Was it for war that we gave love our wombs
Making more soldiers and filling more tombs?

The bombs are a-loading they’re having parades.
It’s not North Korea, it’s Washington, dude.
Let the tanks roll on Corrie and the Bedouin tribes.
Let the allies laugh blindly as the Lord Jesus dies.

O take me, dear mother.Please take me away
I can’t see no point in saying my prayers.
The leaders’ religions are making God frown.
The desert is empty, the tents all dragged down.

The centuries of living so free , so mobile;
The holy land blessing as they pause for while.
The little black tents like wombs of the night
Are all gone to shredders as we sing, Silent Night.

Marion Milner quote see

I had gone my ways assuming that it was my business in life to get things done. But now, deeper than all my practical ambitions and belief in action, was … the fact that the forms in which man expresses his sense of being alive are as powerful a force for change, though in a different way, than any deliberate attempt to get things done, because it is these which change men’s hearts—particularly one’s own heart. (E, 140)

By the river

Scattered pools of rainwater gleam on the dark paving stones

The road disappears under an arch

A family approach smiling : conversation occurs

The dog jumps with delight

By the river, a cat hides looking for water rats on the bank

The terraced houses by the water look contented and prosperous

The third one has new curtains.

A man walks by seeming nervous, nothing to do on Sunday.

Turning the other way I see the huge tree by the large end house

Then a sharp turn on to the bridge

Small bridges here remind me of Thames bridges

These are secret hidden and beautiful like little treasures.

Here comes someone on a bicycle better step back.

Now we walk towards the pub with another bridge in front

But I forgot, you are not here. The last time I drank grapefruit juice.

I have not had any since then.

Last night I dreamed I was in the garden with a big hedge on my right

The shrubs were leafless and as I pressed my ear against them I could hear laughter and I knew that it was you.

The secret garden that we never enter

Then you cried hello hello. You sounded merry

That was a small heaven

And always the river flows down the contour lines as it was designed.

And the people change but everything is still the same

The whisper

The still small voice still speaks but we don’t hear

We have our headphones on when god is near

We must not miss the music nor the news

We must look at stats and likes and count the views

Yet I think we can be quite sincere.

The voice of Man or God can be revered

The still small voice.

And in the name of

privacy concealed

What is hidden  needs to be revealed

We think that God is powerful despite clues

He does not bomb the helpless for the News

Only when we listen are we healed

The still small voice

Seeing with new eyes?

We’re not afraid just of bad things in our lives like losing people or treasures or jobs.

No we are not just afraid of the bad things but we’re also afraid of being overwhelmed by joy by beauty by love

We think we want love or to be knocked out with joy

But often the only way this can happen is when we are not expecting it

Is this why dating websites don’t work very well?

I’ve been overwhelmed several times by the stunning beauty of buildings like St Paul’s Cathedral.

That happened as I was in a car in the city but I’d lost track of where exactly we were and so I was not expecting to see a floodlit building when I did

It was a marvelous experience but I wonder how often I have blocked things off because either I think I know what it is I’ve already seen that I don’t need to look at it again

Oh because in some way it’s fearful as well. I think Westminster Abbey is fearful inside because it’s so massive.

Could it be the same as people?

We do and we do not wish to be overwhelmed by people.

Also is it just the English who don’t like to talk about such emotions?

Maybe not. Maybe it’s modern life we don’t have time to be knocked out by something beautiful and  be  lying on the ground looking up at the cathedral, when we should be at a meeting or during the supermarket shopping etc

York is said to be the most beautiful city in Europe or one of the most beautiful but I know someone who lives there and she said to me one day

Oh, do you get used to it you don’t really notice it.

How can we stop getting like that so that we can see at least some things a fresh with new eyes?

Until it’s happened to you, you don’t know that it’s possible.

It could happen in a bad way as Hitler was said to have hypnotic power. I don’t have enough evidence of this but it would make things more easy to understand if you’ve been overwhelmed by the evil in somebody else it might kill you or it might make you worship them.

That’s the trouble with political parties.

They themselves or others want to know absolutely everything clearly what are they going to do what are they not going to do but surely they will have to see this country with New eyes hopefully a labour government is more likely to have sympathy for the poor. But they’re clone there’s no point having sympathy unless you’ve got the power to do something to make the Econony stronger, to make it grow.

Maybe we don’t want to think certain thoughts. We don’t want to think that there’s no magic one that can be waved after 14 years of austerity and civil conflict

It’s good to be able to be shocked by what you perceive.

It’s not good to be cynical. Because they’re new do not actually want to know or to see how things could be different because we claim nothing is any good anyway

Conversation is a form of play

By Katherine

Conversation is a form of play

We take our turns to let the other say

When we pray we hope that God will hear

We send our spoken music without fear

If no one responds what shall we do?

The mouth turns dry our lips are sealed  with glue

I wonder who we talk to as we moan

Repeating cliches drop like  dead grey stones.

You think you speak to me but you are wrong

I hear no music and I hear no song

It’s hard to leave a gap for others words

when we fear their sharpness like small swords

But in the end we must hear or die.

Yet if none will speak they tell no lie

Sleep with Shakespeare,lie with Joyce

wp_20161103_09_44_01_pro-2-222222

It seemed a good idea at the time.But the timing was wrong.Shakespeare was my boyfriend’s friend.To be honest he was a cat.So to preserve my modesty I slept with the cat and not the boyfriend.Just another natural disaster in every day life.

Still,a cat has eyes unlike a flea which is what I sleep with now;
I know only because it bites me in the night!Possibly it was from the cat and became a multitude like my sins .which are mainly of omission.A  few are cultivated and the rest grew like weeds.I feel such shame when I think of my life,sleeping with everything but  a human being. Intimacy with moths does not contribute to literature or any other human undertaking and yet it saved a man from torment loving a woman with such a strange personality.So that is good.I also wrote a few plays

A midsummer night’s scream.

Julius seized me.

Richard the Blurred

King Fear

MacDuff,the pudding

Hamrent

Hamerous

Hams of old England.

Nymphs and Leopards.

Liebscreamsche

Nietzsche’s word was my father.

Who won the Bore?

England’s screaming peasants blend

Death ,where is thy King?

Foreigner’a rile us.

Boldlock the beloved

I  made a few dollars selling myself to  an owl
.Beyond that my life is herstory.

Can I get bail?I hope the judge is  lenient

66 days to rediscover boredom: ‘The way I’d been thinking about time was wrong’

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2025/jan/18/66-days-to-rediscover-boredom-how-long-does-it-take-to-change-a-habit?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

How not to dictator letter

Dear Annie

I am so sorry that I have to email you rather than writing a letter by hand and since I have to dictate it it is probably going to be full of arrows.

I will try to edit it before I send but one is often blind to one zone mistakes.

It is like when I dictator poem I don’t notice the areas in it until I have published it on my blog which is most unfortunate for my reputation of meticulous care and precision although to be honest that’s not really suitable for poetry is it?

It shows that we don’t see what’s there but we only see what we’re expecting to see and in some cases this can produce a terrible result

Ironically now I’m hoping for some humorous mistakes to come into this letter it’s being done much more accurately than normal I wonder why that is question mark is it because I’m speaking more rapidly or is it just shake her incidents?

Sheer coincidence

When there is an area like the end of the last sentence it’s interesting that the line that’s typed rhymes with the one that I own dictators but it does not come out the same as what I have dictated usually

So this translation this is not done word by word but by the overall meaning of this paragraph even sometimes you forget to the end of a paragraph and then you look up and you see the first sentence you wrote is being changed even though that’s the correct one

So then you have to go back an older at the beginning and then you don’t know where you will end up do you when you change the beginning will you have to rewrite the entire thing?

I am disappointed because there are not enough mistakes no and I was rely on the mistakes to make this letter numerous but still what is humor two and the numerate?

Well if only all the population were literate things will be much worse because the people who can’t read at the moment are prevented from reading the sun the daily mail the telegraph and any other newspaper you like to mention and if they can’t read then they can’t read online so they can’t look at Facebook not that I hate Facebook but it depends on what you’re doing with it xxx

It’s very sad that people use Facebook to get the news not realizing that the news is not the news it’s a selection of news or all of lies who knows but when something is in print people believe it

There’s something about the written word that seems to have more authority than the spoken word is that why people think the Bible is the literal word of god?

Practices the little word of god

Perhaps it is the little word of god or the literal word of god or the little word of somebody else who is not named m

I can’t remember now why I began to write you so I think I better stop for the moment and I’ll do this tomorrow morning when I’m fresh. At least I’m with freshfield and I am at the moment

I sent him a sleeping a lot now I seem to be sleeping a lot but I don’t know why unless it’s the winter or perhaps I’m beginning to recover from my serious infection at last but whatever sleep we get wood we ever be satisfied

Because we can’t control it or at least if we try to conserve it it makes it worse

When I was young I never thought about it I would get into bed and go to sleep then I would woken up and it was time to get up

But nowadays some people start thinking in the afternoon I wonder if I’m going to sleep tonight and what will I do tomorrow if I’m tired and even if they’re waking up one hour earlier than usual but then start worrying about the fact that I’ve had one hour less sleep and they would like

We can’t control most we can’t control most things in life especially with regard to our bodies so we have to trust them

If you have good parents and you feel secure then you will see sleep will be welcome to you and it will be easy to get but when you are older and you feel more insecure then you want to be sure or something but you can’t be.

Search for the better not even to think about it

Sincerely

A well wisher

‘Everything we were taught about success is wrong

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2025/jan/16/everything-we-were-taught-about-success-is-wrong-how-to-find-true-fulfilment-in-your-life-and-career?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

Another way, a place another mind

.  From time and place and season I feel lost,

Disorientated , missing tracks well worn.

Do not suppose I’m unaware of cost,

Nor label me with epithets of scorn.

For usual paths lead to the usual place

. The safest way to live and perhaps to die.

But wandering through the woods I find new space

and in wild grasses with the fox I lie. Through distant trees, i see a way to go

as narrow as a slit in pallid stonm

This is my destined way, I seem to know And courage rises even as I moan.

Remember when we’re lost , we may then find Another way,a place,another mind

Day shall come again

When red sun drops and cooling night rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and our vision
Ancient minds fear day won’t come again
Courage for the delicate seems thin
We wrestle with our indecision
When low sun drops and a new night rolls in
But now , fresh stricken by the dread of sin
Who protects us from derision?
Our ancient mind fears day won’t come again
As we sleep we’re entertained within
Bold dreams squander all illusion
When sunset comes the darkest night rolls in
In  dreams we see  new life  arising
Then fancy turns to full communion
The ancient mind dreads day won’t come again
Despite such angst, our sacred life began
When sperm leaped up in proud confusion.
When deep sun dropped and a new night rolled in
All human hearts cried,Day shall come again”

Who was that?

L.Wittgenstein- Hell, wits of stone?

Boris Johnson Tories prancing
Bertrand Russell- Hairbands Rustle >Women tussle

Keir Starmer . cheerleader karma

Fiercely calmer

He never harmed you


A N Whitehead- Uninvited; And was blighted.
Principia Mathematica—Pin chips here where’s your laughter alphabetically.Computer spam-king

Kurt Godel–Clot burbles.Hurt hurdles;Flirt Girdles
David Hilbert- Raves of Hell -Flirt
Isaac Newton-Raise the Roofing.Fry Zack Croutons
Leibniz- Fried nits.Delight Fritz
Hooke’s Laws of Motion–Book calls for Emotion
Archimedes-Ark of freebies.Hark! He needs Ease
Edward Elgar -Led towards Hell Far
Queen Victoria- Keen to pore over me.
Benjamin Disraeli—- Send men to Australia. Clench them in Fizz, really
Bedlam disables you.
Clement Attlee-Repent after me.Lemons at sea.Pennants can Wee.
Winston Churchill—Won some Birch Bill.
Stephen Hawkings- see any parking? Raving hawk kills

Suffering

The grieving man who never looks outside

Suffers like a prisoner in a cell

Yet he has some freedom to decide

To grieve yet view our holy world as well.

To turn the eyes back to the lost and dead.

Is what we all must do in painful times

But to this natural world, we must be wed

And under suffering draw a heavy line

From despair, we rise to be renewed;

To see our friends and make our hearts feel glad.

And look behind us with a gentler view

See the joy and love and all the kindness had.

In the sea of grief, we swim not drow

We cast away the weights which pull us down.

Sunset

Black against light sky Bright flowers blown ; Bare branches now Reach beseechingly. Reluctant sun hangs Sending thin light and pinkness

To clouds sleek as cats Now paling, blue grey,

I see mauve dying into dark

Night sky edges in

The blackness awaits;

Dreams dangle like stringed balloons

A new born child gurgles How full the holly!

Forsythia large and darker 

Birds shelter wisely

Does poetry matter outside of an elite group?

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https://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/unbound/poetry/gioia/gioia.htm

Atlantic Monthly Sidebar
As originally published in
The Atlantic Monthly
May 1991Can Poetry Matter?Poetry has vanished as a cultural force in America.
If poets venture outside their confined world, they can work
to make it essential once more

by Dana Gioia
AMERICAN POETRY now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life, it has become the specialized occupation of a relatively small and isolated group. Little of the frenetic activity it generates ever reaches outside that closed group. As a class poets are not without cultural status. Like priests in a town of agnostics, they still command a certain residual prestige. But as individual artists they are almost invisible.What makes the situation of contemporary poets particularly surprising is that it comes at a moment of unprecedented expansion for the art. There have never before been so many new books of poetry published, so many anthologies or literary magazines. Never has it been so easy to earn a living as a poet. There are now several thousand college-level jobs in teaching creative writing, and many more at the primary and secondary levels. Congress has even instituted the position of poet laureate, as have twenty-five states. One also finds a complex network of public subvention for poets, funded by federal, state, and local agencies, augmented by private support in the form of foundation fellowships, prizes, and subsidized retreats. There has also never before been so much published criticism about contemporary poetry; it fills dozens of literary newsletters and scholarly journals.

The proliferation of new poetry and poetry programs is astounding by any historical measure. Just under a thousand new collections of verse are published each year, in addition to a myriad of new poems printed in magazines both small and large. No one knows how many poetry readings take place each year, but surely the total must run into the tens of thousands. And there are now about 200 graduate creative-writing programs in the United States, and more than a thousand undergraduate ones. With an average of ten poetry students in each graduate section, these programs alone will produce about 20,000 accredited professional poets over the next decade. From such statistics an observer might easily conclude that we live in the golden age of American poetry.But the poetry boom has been a distressingly confined phenomenon. Decades of public and private funding have created a large professional class for the production and reception of new poetry comprising legions of teachers, graduate students, editors, publishers, and administrators. Based mostly in universities, these groups have gradually become the primary audience for contemporary verse. Consequently, the energy of American poetry, which was once directed outward, is now increasingly focused inward. Reputations are made and rewards distributed within the poetry subculture. To adapt Russell Jacoby’s definition of contemporary academic renown from The Last Intellectuals, a “famous” poet now means someone famous only to other poets. But there are enough poets to make that local fame relatively meaningful. Not long ago, “only poets read poetry” was meant as damning criticism. Now it is a proven marketing strategy.

The situation has become a paradox, a Zen riddle of cultural sociology. Over the past half century, as American poetry’s specialist audience has steadily expanded, its general readership has declined. Moreover, the engines that have driven poetry’s institutional success–the explosion of academic writing programs, the proliferation of subsidized magazines and presses, the emergence of a creative-writing career track, and the migration of American literary culture to the university–have unwittingly contributed to its disappearance from public view.

Its Own World

TO the average reader, the proposition that poetry’s audience has declined may seem self-evident. It is symptomatic of the art’s current isolation that within the subculture such notions are often rejected. Like chamber-of-commerce representatives from Parnassus, poetry boosters offer impressive recitations of the numerical growth of publications, programs, and professorships. Given the bullish statistics on poetry’s material expansion, how does one demonstrate that its intellectual and spiritual influence has eroded? One cannot easily marshal numbers, but to any candid observer the evidence throughout the world of ideas and letters seems inescapable.

Daily newspapers no longer review poetry. There is, in fact, little coverage of poetry or poets in the general press. From 1984 until this year the National Book Awards dropped poetry as a category. Leading critics rarely review it. In fact, virtually no one reviews it except other poets. Almost no popular collections of contemporary poetry are available except those, like the Norton Anthology, targeting an academic audience. It seems, in short, as if the large audience that still exists for quality fiction hardly notices poetry. A reader familiar with the novels of Joyce Carol Oates, John Updike, or John Barth may not even recognize the names of Gwendolyn Brooks, Gary Snyder, and W. D. Snodgrass.

One can see a microcosm of poetry’s current position by studying its coverage in The New York Times. Virtually never reviewed in the daily edition, new poetry is intermittently discussed in the Sunday Book Review, but almost always in group reviews where three books are briefly considered together. Whereas a new novel or biography is reviewed on or around its publication date, a new collection by an important poet like Donald Hall or David Ignatow might wait up to a year for a notice. Or it might never be reviewed at all. Henry Taylor’s The Flying Change was reviewed only after it had won the Pulitzer Prize. Rodney Jones’s Transparent Gestures was reviewed months after it had won the National Book Critics Circle Award. Rita Dove’s Pulitzer Prize-winning Thomas and Beulah was not reviewed by the Times at all.

Poetry reviewing is no better anywhere else, and generally it is much worse. The New York Times only reflects the opinion that although there is a great deal of poetry around, none of it matters very much to readers, publishers, or advertisers–to anyone, that is, except other poets. For most newspapers and magazines, poetry has become a literary commodity intended less to be read than to be noted with approval. Most editors run poems and poetry reviews the way a prosperous Montana rancher might keep a few buffalo around–not to eat the endangered creatures but to display them for tradition’s sake.

How Poetry Diminished

ARGUMENTS about the decline of poetry’s cultural importance are not new. In American letters they date back to the nineteenth century. But the modern debate might be said to have begun in 1934 when Edmund Wilson published the first version of his controversial essay “Is Verse a Dying Technique?” Surveying literary history, Wilson noted that verse’s role had grown increasingly narrow since the eighteenth century. In particular, Romanticism’s emphasis on intensity made poetry seem so “fleeting and quintessential” that eventually it dwindled into a mainly lyric medium. As verse–which had previously been a popular medium for narrative, satire, drama, even history and scientific speculation–retreated into lyric, prose usurped much of its cultural territory. Truly ambitious writers eventually had no choice but to write in prose. The future of great literature, Wilson speculated, belonged almost entirely to prose.

Wilson was a capable analyst of literary trends. His skeptical assessment of poetry’s place in modern letters has been frequently attacked and qualified over the past half century, but it has never been convincingly dismissed. His argument set the ground rules for all subsequent defenders of contemporary poetry. It also provided the starting point for later iconoclasts, from Delmore Schwartz to Christopher Clausen. The most recent and celebrated of these revisionists is Joseph Epstein, whose mordant 1988 critique “Who Killed Poetry?” first appeared in Commentary and was reprinted in an extravagantly acrimonious symposium in AWP Chronicle (the journal of the Associated Writing Programs). Not coincidentally, Epstein’s title pays a double homage to Wilson’s essay–first by mimicking the interrogative form of the original title, second by employing its metaphor of death.

Epstein essentially updated Wilson’s argument, but with important differences. Whereas Wilson looked on the decline of poetry’s cultural position as a gradual process spanning three centuries, Epstein focused on the past few decades. He contrasted the major achievements of the modernists–the generation of Eliot and Stevens, which led poetry from moribund Romanticism into the twentieth century–with what he felt were the minor accomplishments of the present practitioners. The modernists, Epstein maintained, were artists who worked from a broad cultural vision. Contemporary writers were “poetry professionals,” who operated within the closed world of the university. Wilson blamed poetry’s plight on historical forces; Epstein indicted the poets themselves and the institutions they had helped create, especially creative-writing programs. A brilliant polemicist, Epstein intended his essay to be incendiary, and it did ignite an explosion of criticism. No recent essay on American poetry has generated so many immediate responses in literary journals. And certainly none has drawn so much violently negative criticism from poets themselves. To date at least thirty writers have responded in print. The poet Henry Taylor published two rebuttals.

Poets are justifiably sensitive to arguments that poetry has declined in cultural importance, because journalists and reviewers have used such arguments simplistically to declare all contemporary verse irrelevant. Usually the less a critic knows about verse the more readily he or she dismisses it. It is no coincidence, I think, that the two most persuasive essays on poetry’s presumed demise were written by outstanding critics of fiction, neither of whom has written extensively about contemporary poetry. It is too soon to judge the accuracy of Epstein’s essay, but a literary historian would find Wilson’s timing ironic. As Wilson finished his famous essay, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens, T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Marianne Moore, E. E. Cummings, Robinson Jeffers, H. D. (Hilda Doolittle), Robert Graves, W. H. Auden, Archibald MacLeish, Basil Bunting, and others were writing some of their finest poems, which, encompassing history, politics, economics, religion, and philosophy, are among the most culturally inclusive in the history of the language. At the same time, a new generation, which would include Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, Philip Larkin, Randall Jarrell, Dylan Thomas, A. D. Hope, and others, was just breaking into print. Wilson himself later admitted that the emergence of a versatile and ambitious poet like Auden contradicted several points of his argument. But if Wilson’s prophecies were sometimes inaccurate, his sense of poetry’s overall situation was depressingly astute. Even if great poetry continues to be written, it has retreated from the center of literary life. Though supported by a loyal coterie, poetry has lost the confidence that it speaks to and for the general culture.

Inside the Subculture

ONE sees evidence of poetry’s diminished stature even within the thriving subculture. The established rituals of the poetry world–the readings, small magazines, workshops, and conferences–exhibit a surprising number of self-imposed limitations. Why, for example, does poetry mix so seldom with music, dance, or theater? At most readings the program consists of verse only–and usually only verse by that night’s author. Forty years ago, when Dylan Thomas read, he spent half the program reciting other poets’ work. Hardly a self-effacing man, he was nevertheless humble before his art. Today most readings are celebrations less of poetry than of the author’s ego. No wonder the audience for such events usually consists entirely of poets, would-be poets, and friends of the author.

Several dozen journals now exist that print only verse. They don’t publish literary reviews, just page after page of freshly minted poems. The heart sinks to see so many poems crammed so tightly together, like downcast immigrants in steerage. One can easily miss a radiant poem amid the many lackluster ones. It takes tremendous effort to read these small magazines with openness and attention. Few people bother, generally not even the magazines’ contributors. The indifference to poetry in the mass media has created a monster of the opposite kind–journals that love poetry not wisely but too well.

Until about thirty years ago most poetry appeared in magazines that addressed a nonspecialist audience on a range of subjects. Poetry vied for the reader’s interest along with politics, humor, fiction, and reviews–a competition that proved healthy for all the genres. A poem that didn’t command the reader’s attention wasn’t considered much of a poem. Editors chose verse that they felt would appeal to their particular audiences, and the diversity of magazines assured that a variety of poetry appeared. The early Kenyon Review published Robert Lowell’s poems next to critical essays and literary reviews. The old New Yorker celebrated Ogden Nash between cartoons and short stories.

A few general-interest magazines, such as The New Republic andThe New Yorker, still publish poetry in every issue, but, significantly, none except The Nation still reviews it regularly. Some poetry appears in the handful of small magazines and quarterlies that consistently discuss a broad cultural agenda with nonspecialist readers, such as The Threepenny Review, The New Criterion, and The Hudson Review. But most poetry is published in journals that address an insular audience of literary professionals, mainly teachers of creative writing and their students. A few of these, such as American Poetry Review and AWP Chronicle, have moderately large circulations. Many more have negligible readerships. But size is not the problem. The problem is their complacency or resignation about existing only in and for a subculture.

What are the characteristics of a poetry-subculture publication? First, the one subject it addresses is current American literature (supplemented perhaps by a few translations of poets who have already been widely translated). Second, if it prints anything other than poetry, that is usually short fiction. Third, if it runs discursive prose, the essays and reviews are overwhelmingly positive. If it publishes an interview, the tone will be unabashedly reverent toward the author. For these journals critical prose exists not to provide a disinterested perspective on new books but to publicize them. Quite often there are manifest personal connections between the reviewers and the authors they discuss. If occasionally a negative review is published, it will be openly sectarian, rejecting an aesthetic that the magazine has already condemned. The unspoken editorial rule seems to be, Never surprise or annoy the readers; they are, after all, mainly our friends and colleagues.

By abandoning the hard work of evaluation, the poetry subculture demeans its own art. Since there are too many new poetry collections appearing each year for anyone to evaluate, the reader must rely on the candor and discernment of reviewers to recommend the best books. But the general press has largely abandoned this task, and the specialized press has grown so overprotective of poetry that it is reluctant to make harsh judgments. In his new book, American Poetry: Wildness and Domesticity, Robert Bly has accurately described the corrosive effect of this critical boosterism:

We have an odd situation: although more bad poetry is being published now than ever before in American history, most of the reviews are positive. Critics say, “I never attack what is bad, all that will take care of itself,” . . . but the country is full of young poets and readers who are confused by seeing mediocre poetry praised, or never attacked, and who end up doubting their own critical perceptions.

A clubby feeling also typifies most recent anthologies of contemporary poetry. Although these collections represent themselves as trustworthy guides to the best new poetry, they are not compiled for readers outside the academy. More than one editor has discovered that the best way to get an anthology assigned is to include work by the poets who teach the courses. Compiled in the spirit of congenial opportunism, many of these anthologies give the impression that literary quality is a concept that neither an editor nor a reader should take too seriously.The 1985 Morrow Anthology of Younger American Poets, for example, is not so much a selective literary collection as a comprehensive directory of creative-writing teachers (it even offers a photo of each author). Running nearly 800 pages, the volume presents no fewer than 104 important young poets, virtually all of whom teach creative writing. The editorial principle governing selection seems to have been the fear of leaving out some influential colleague. The book does contain a few strong and original poems, but they are surrounded by so many undistinguished exercises that one wonders if the good work got there by design or simply by random sampling. In the drearier patches one suspects that perhaps the book was never truly meant to be read, only assigned.

And that is the real issue. The poetry subculture no longer assumes that all published poems will be read. Like their colleagues in other academic departments, poetry professionals must publish, for purposes of both job security and career advancement. The more they publish, the faster they progress. If they do not publish, or wait too long, their economic futures are in grave jeopardy.

In art, of course, everyone agrees that quality and not quantity matters. Some authors survive on the basis of a single unforgettable poem–Edmund Waller’s “Go, Lovely Rose,” for example, or Edwin Markham’s “The Man With the Hoe,” which was made famous by being reprinted in hundreds of newspapers–an unthinkable occurrence today. But bureaucracies, by their very nature, have difficulty measuring something as intangible as literary quality. When institutions evaluate creative artists for employment or promotion, they still must find some seemingly objective means to do so. As the critic Bruce Bawer has observed,

A poem is, after all, a fragile thing, and its intrinsic worth or lack thereof, is a frighteningly subjective consideration; but fellowship grants, degrees, appointments, and publications are objective facts. They are quantifiable; they can be listed on a resume.

Poets serious about making careers in institutions understand that the criteria for success are primarily quantitative. They must publish as much as possible as quickly as possible. The slow maturation of genuine creativity looks like laziness to a committee. Wallace Stevens was forty-three when his first book appeared. Robert Frost was thirty-nine. Today these sluggards would be unemployable.The proliferation of literary journals and presses over the past thirty years has been a response less to an increased appetite for poetry among the public than to the desperate need of writing teachers for professional validation. Like subsidized farming that grows food no one wants, a poetry industry has been created to serve the interests of the producers and not the consumers. And in the process the integrity of the art has been betrayed. Of course, no poet is allowed to admit this in public. The cultural credibility of the professional poetry establishment depends on maintaining a polite hypocrisy. Millions of dollars in public and private funding are at stake. Luckily, no one outside the subculture cares enough to press the point very far. No Woodward and Bernstein will ever investigate a cover-up by members of the Associated Writing Programs.

The new poet makes a living not by publishing literary work but by providing specialized educational services. Most likely he or she either works for or aspires to work for a large institution–usually a state-run enterprise, such as a school district, a college, or a university (or lately even a hospital or prison)–teaching others how to write poetry or, on the highest levels, how to teach others how to write poetry.

To look at the issue in strictly economic terms, most contemporary poets have been alienated from their original cultural function. As Marx maintained and few economists have disputed, changes in a class’s economic function eventually transform its values and behavior. In poetry’s case, the socioeconomic changes have led to a divided literary culture: the superabundance of poetry within a small class and the impoverishment outside it. One might even say that outside the classroom–where society demands that the two groups interact–poets and the common reader are no longer on speaking terms.

The divorce of poetry from the educated reader has had another, more pernicious result. Seeing so much mediocre verse not only published but praised, slogging through so many dull anthologies and small magazines, most readers–even sophisticated ones like Joseph Epstein–now assume that no significant new poetry is being written. This public skepticism represents the final isolation of verse as an art form in contemporary society.

The irony is that this skepticism comes in a period of genuine achievement. Gresham’s Law, that bad coinage drives out good, only half applies to current poetry. The sheer mass of mediocrity may have frightened away most readers, but it has not yet driven talented writers from the field. Anyone patient enough to weed through the tangle of contemporary work finds an impressive and diverse range of new poetry. Adrienne Rich, for example, despite her often overbearing polemics, is a major poet by any standard. The best work of Donald Justice, Anthony Hecht, Donald Hall, James Merrill, Louis Simpson, William Stafford, and Richard Wilbur–to mention only writers of the older generation–can hold its own against anything in the national literature. One might also add Sylvia Plath and James Wright, two strong poets of the same generation who died early. America is also a country rich in emigre poetry, as major writers like Czeslaw Milosz, Nina Cassian, Derek Walcott, Joseph Brodsky, and Thom Gunn demonstrate.

Without a role in the broader culture, however, talented poets lack the confidence to create public speech. Occasionally a writer links up rewardingly to a social or political movement. Rich, for example, has used feminism to expand the vision of her work. Robert Bly wrote his finest poetry to protest the Vietnam War. His sense of addressing a large and diverse audience added humor, breadth, and humanity to his previously minimal verse. But it is a difficult task to marry the Muse happily to politics. Consequently, most contemporary poets, knowing that they are virtually invisible in the larger culture, focus on the more intimate forms of lyric and meditative verse. (And a few loners, like X. J. Kennedy and John Updike, turn their genius to the critically disreputable demimonde of light verse and children’s poetry.) Therefore, although current American poetry has not often excelled in public forms like political or satiric verse, it has nonetheless produced personal poems of unsurpassed beauty and power. Despite its manifest excellence, this new work has not found a public beyond the poetry subculture, because the traditional machinery of transmission–the reliable reviewing, honest criticism, and selective anthologies–has broken down. The audience that once made Frost and Eliot, Cummings and Millay, part of its cultural vision remains out of reach. Today Walt Whitman’s challenge “To have great poets, there must be great audiences, too” reads like an indictment.

From Bohemia to Bureaucracy

TO maintain their activities, subcultures usually require institutions, since the general society does not share their interests. Nudists flock to “nature camps” to express their unfettered life-style. Monks remain in monasteries to protect their austere ideals. As long as poets belonged to a broader class of artists and intellectuals, they centered their lives in urban bohemias, where they maintained a distrustful independence from institutions. Once poets began moving into universities, they abandoned the working-class heterogeneity of Greenwich Village and North Beach for the professional homogeneity of academia.

At first they existed on the fringes of English departments, which was probably healthy. Without advanced degrees or formal career paths, poets were recognized as special creatures. They were allowed–like aboriginal chieftains visiting an anthropologist’s campsite–to behave according to their own laws. But as the demand for creative writing grew, the poet’s job expanded from merely literary to administrative duties. At the university’s urging, these self-trained writers designed history’s first institutional curricula for young poets. Creative writing evolved from occasional courses taught within the English department into its own undergraduate major or graduate-degree program. Writers fashioned their academic specialty in the image of other university studies. As the new writing departments multiplied, the new professionals patterned their infrastructure–job titles, journals, annual conventions, organizations–according to the standards not of urban bohemia but of educational institutions. Out of the professional networks this educational expansion created, the subculture of poetry was born.

Initially, the multiplication of creative-writing programs must have been a dizzyingly happy affair. Poets who had scraped by in bohemia or had spent their early adulthood fighting the Second World War suddenly secured stable, well-paying jobs. Writers who had never earned much public attention found themselves surrounded by eager students. Poets who had been too poor to travel flew from campus to campus and from conference to conference, to speak before audiences of their peers. As Wilfrid Sheed once described a moment in John Berryman’s career, “Through the burgeoning university network, it was suddenly possible to think of oneself as a national poet, even if the nation turned out to consist entirely of English Departments.” The bright postwar world promised a renaissance for American poetry.

In material terms that promise has been fulfilled beyond the dreams of anyone in Berryman’s Depression-scarred generation. Poets now occupy niches at every level of academia, from a few sumptuously endowed chairs with six-figure salaries to the more numerous part-time stints that pay roughly the same as Burger King. But even at minimum wage, teaching poetry earns more than writing it ever did. Before the creative-writing boom, being a poet usually meant living in genteel poverty or worse. While the sacrifices poetry demanded caused much individual suffering, the rigors of serving Milton’s “thankless Muse” also delivered the collective cultural benefit of frightening away all but committed artists.

Today poetry is a modestly upwardly mobile, middle-class profession–not as lucrative as waste management or dermatology but several big steps above the squalor of bohemia. Only a philistine would romanticize the blissfully banished artistic poverty of yesteryear. But a clear-eyed observer must also recognize that by opening the poet’s trade to all applicants and by employing writers to do something other than write, institutions have changed the social and economic identity of the poet from artist to educator. In social terms the identification of poet with teacher is now complete. The first question one poet now asks another upon being introduced is “Where do you teach?” The problem is not that poets teach. The campus is not a bad place for a poet to work. It’s just a bad place for all poets to work. Society suffers by losing the imagination and vitality that poets brought to public culture. Poetry suffers when literary standards are forced to conform with institutional ones.

Even within the university contemporary poetry now exists as a subculture. The teaching poet finds that he or she has little in common with academic colleagues. The academic study of literature over the past twenty-five years has veered off in a theoretical direction with which most imaginative writers have little sympathy or familiarity. Thirty years ago detractors of creative-writing programs predicted that poets in universities would become enmeshed in literary criticism and scholarship. This prophecy has proved spectacularly wrong. Poets have created enclaves in the academy almost entirely separate from their critical colleagues. They write less criticism than they did before entering the academy. Pressed to keep up with the plethora of new poetry, small magazines, professional journals, and anthologies, they are frequently also less well read in the literature of the past. Their peers in the English department generally read less contemporary poetry and more literary theory. In many departments writers and literary theorists are openly at war. Bringing the two groups under one roof has paradoxically made each more territorial. Isolated even within the university, the poet, whose true subject is the whole of human existence, has reluctantly become an educational specialist.

When People Paid Attention

TO understand how radically the situation of the American poet has changed, one need only compare today with fifty years ago. In 1940, with the notable exception of Robert Frost, few poets were working in colleges unless, like Mark Van Doren and Yvor Winters, they taught traditional academic subjects. The only creative-writing program was an experiment begun a few years earlier at the University of Iowa. The modernists exemplified the options that poets had for making a living. They could enter middle-class professions, as had T. S. Eliot (a banker turned publisher), Wallace Stevens (a corporate insurance lawyer) and William Carlos Williams (a pediatrician). Or they could live in bohemia supporting themselves as artists, as, in different ways, did Ezra Pound, E. E. Cummings, and Marianne Moore. If the city proved unattractive, they could, like Robinson Jeffers, scrape by in a rural arts colony like Carmel, California. Or they might become farmers, like the young Robert Frost.

Most often poets supported themselves as editors or reviewers, actively taking part in the artistic and intellectual life of their time. Archibald MacLeish was an editor and writer at Fortune. James Agee reviewed movies for Time and The Nation, and eventually wrote screenplays for Hollywood. Randall Jarrell reviewed books. Weldon Kees wrote about jazz and modern art. Delmore Schwartz reviewed everything. Even poets who eventually took up academic careers spent intellectually broadening apprenticeships in literary journalism. The young Robert Hayden covered music and theater for Michigan’s black press. R. P. Blackmur, who never completed high school, reviewed books for Hound & Horn before teaching at Princeton. Occasionally a poet might supplement his or her income by giving a reading or lecture, but these occasions were rare. Robinson Jeffers, for example, was fifty-four when he gave his first public reading. For most poets, the sustaining medium was not the classroom or the podium but the written word.

If poets supported themselves by writing, it was mainly by writing prose. Paying outlets for poetry were limited. Beyond a few national magazines, which generally preferred light verse or political satire, there were at any one time only a few dozen journals that published a significant amount of poetry. The emergence of a serious new quarterly like Partisan Review or Furioso was an event of real importance, and a small but dedicated audience eagerly looked forward to each issue. If people could not afford to buy copies, they borrowed them or visited public libraries. As for books of poetry if one excludes vanity-press editions, fewer than a hundred new titles were published each year. But the books that did appear were reviewed in daily newspapers as well as magazines and quarterlies. A focused monthly like Poetry could cover virtually the entire field.

Reviewers fifty years ago were by today’s standards extraordinarily tough. They said exactly what they thought, even about their most influential contemporaries. Listen, for example, to Randall Jarrell’s description of a book by the famous anthologist Oscar Williams: it “gave the impression of having been written on a typewriter by a typewriter.” That remark kept Jarrell out of subsequent Williams anthologies, but he did not hesitate to publish it. Or consider Jarrell’s assessment of Archibald MacLeish’s public poem America Was Promises: it “might have been devised by a YMCA secretary at a home for the mentally deficient.” Or read Weldon Kees’s one-sentence review of Muriel Rukeyser’s Wake Island–“There’s one thing you can say about Muriel: she’s not lazy.” But these same reviewers could write generously about poets they admired, as Jarrell did about Elizabeth Bishop, and Kees about Wallace Stevens. Their praise mattered, because readers knew it did not come lightly.

The reviewers of fifty years ago knew that their primary loyalty must lie not with their fellow poets or publishers but with the reader. Consequently they reported their reactions with scrupulous honesty even when their opinions might lose them literary allies and writing assignments. In discussing new poetry they addressed a wide community of educated readers. Without talking down to their audience, they cultivated a public idiom. Prizing clarity and accessibility they avoided specialist jargon and pedantic displays of scholarship. They also tried, as serious intellectuals should but specialists often do not, to relate what was happening in poetry to social, political, and artistic trends. They charged modern poetry with cultural importance and made it the focal point of their intellectual discourse.

Ill-paid, overworked, and underappreciated, this argumentative group of “practical” critics, all of them poets, accomplished remarkable things. They defined the canon of modernist poetry, established methods to analyze verse of extraordinary difficulty, and identified the new mid-century generation of American poets (Lowell, Roethke, Bishop, Berryman, and others) that still dominates our literary consciousness. Whatever one thinks of their literary canon or critical principles, one must admire the intellectual energy and sheer determination of these critics, who developed as writers without grants or permanent faculty positions, often while working precariously on free-lance assignments. They represent a high point in American intellectual life. Even fifty years later their names still command more authority than those of all but a few contemporary critics. A short roll call would include John Berryman, R. P. Blackmur, Louise Bogan, John Ciardi, Horace Gregory, Langston Hughes, Randall Jarrell, Weldon Kees, Kenneth Rexroth, Delmore Schwartz, Karl Shapiro, Allen Tate, and Yvor Winters. Although contemporary poetry has its boosters and publicists, it has no group of comparable dedication and talent able to address the general literary community.

Like all genuine intellectuals, these critics were visionary. They believed that if modern poets did not have an audience, they could create one. And gradually they did. It was not a mass audience; few American poets of any period have enjoyed a direct relationship with the general public. It was a cross-section of artists and intellectuals, including scientists, clergymen, educators, lawyers, and, of course, writers. This group constituted a literary intelligentsia, made up mainly of nonspecialists, who took poetry as seriously as fiction and drama. Recently Donald Hall and other critics have questioned the size of this audience by citing the low average sales of a volume of new verse by an established poet during the period (usually under a thousand copies). But these skeptics do not understand how poetry was read then.

America was a smaller, less affluent country in 1940, with about half its current population and one sixth its current real GNP. In those pre-paperback days of the late Depression neither readers nor libraries could afford to buy as many books as they do today. Nor was there a large captive audience of creative-writing students who bought books of contemporary poetry for classroom use. Readers usually bought poetry in two forms–in an occasional Collected Poems by a leading author, or in anthologies. The comprehensive collections of writers like Frost, Eliot, Auden, Jeffers, Wylie, and Millay sold very well, were frequently reprinted, and stayed perpetually in print. (Today mostCollected Poems disappear after one printing.) Occasionally a book of new poems would capture the public’s fancy. Edwin Arlington Robinson’s Tristram (1927) became a Literary Guild selection. Frost’s A Further Range sold 50,000 copies as a 1936 Book-of-the-Month Club selection. But people knew poetry mainly from anthologies, which they not only bought but also read, with curiosity and attention.

Louis Untermeyer’s Modern American Poetry, first published in 1919, was frequently revised to keep it up to date and was a perennial best seller. My 1942 edition, for example, had been reprinted five times by 1945. My edition of Oscar Williams’s A Pocket Book of Modern Poetry had been reprinted nineteen times in fourteen years. Untermeyer and Williams prided themselves on keeping their anthologies broad-based and timely. They tried to represent the best of what was being published. Each edition added new poems and poets and dropped older ones. The public appreciated their efforts. Poetry anthologies were an indispensable part of any serious reader’s library. Random House’s popular Modern Library series, for example, included not one but two anthologies–Selden Rodman’s A New Anthology of Modern Poetry and Conrad Aiken’s Twentieth Century American Poetry. All these collections were read and reread by a diverse public. Favorite poems were memorized. Difficult authors like Eliot and Thomas were actively discussed and debated. Poetry mattered outside the classroom.

Today these general readers constitute the audience that poetry has lost. Limited by intelligence and curiosity this heterogeneous group cuts across lines of race, class, age, and occupation. Representing our cultural intelligentsia, they are the people who support the arts–who buy classical and jazz records; who attend foreign films and serious theater, opera, symphony, and dance; who read quality fiction and biographies; who listen to public radio and subscribe to the best journals. (They are also often the parents who read poetry to their children and remember, once upon a time in college or high school or kindergarten, liking it themselves.) No one knows the size of this community, but even if one accepts the conservative estimate that it accounts for only two percent of the U.S. population, it still represents a potential audience of almost five million readers. However healthy poetry may appear within its professional subculture, it has lost this larger audience, who represent poetry’s bridge to the general culture.

The Need for Poetry

BUT why should anyone but a poet care about the problems of American poetry? What possible relevance does this archaic art form have to contemporary society? In a better world, poetry would need no justification beyond the sheer splendor of its own existence. As Wallace Stevens once observed, “The purpose of poetry is to contribute to man’s happiness.” Children know this essential truth when they ask to hear their favorite nursery rhymes again and again. Aesthetic pleasure needs no justification, because a life without such pleasure is one not worth living.

But the rest of society has mostly forgotten the value of poetry. To the general reader, discussions about the state of poetry sound like the debating of foreign politics by emigres in a seedy cafe. Or, as Cyril Connolly more bitterly described it, “Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.” Anyone who hopes to broaden poetry’s audience–critic, teacher, librarian, poet, or lonely literary amateur–faces a daunting challenge. How does one persuade justly skeptical readers, in terms they can understand and appreciate, that poetry still matters?

A passage in William Carlos Williams’s “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower” provides a possible starting point. Written toward the end of the author’s life, after he had been partly paralyzed by a stroke, the lines sum up the hard lessons about poetry and audience that Williams had learned over years of dedication to both poetry and medicine. He wrote,

     
             My heart rouses
                    thinking to bring you news
                             of something 

             that concerns you 
                    and concerns many men. Look at 
                            what passes for the new. 
             You will not find it there but in 
                    despised poems. 
                            It is difficult 
             to get the news from poems 
                    yet men die miserably every day 
                            for lack
             of what is found there.

Williams understood poetry’s human value but had no illusions about the difficulties his contemporaries faced in trying to engage the audience that needed the art most desperately. To regain poetry’s readership one must begin by meeting Williams’s challenge to find what “concerns many men,” not simply what concerns poets.There are at least two reasons why the situation of poetry matters to the entire intellectual community. The first involves the role of language in a free society. Poetry is the art of using words charged with their utmost meaning. A society whose intellectual leaders lose the skill to shape, appreciate, and understand the power of language will become the slaves of those who retain it–be they politicians, preachers, copywriters, or newscasters. The public responsibility of poetry has been pointed out repeatedly by modern writers. Even the archsymbolist Stephane Mallarme praised the poet’s central mission to “purify the words of the tribe.” And Ezra Pound warned that

Good writers are those who keep the language efficient. That is to say, keep it accurate, keep it clean. It doesn’t matter whether a good writer wants to be useful, or whether the bad writer wants to do harm. . . .If a nation’s literature declines, the nation atrophies and decays.

Or, as George Orwell wrote after the Second World War, “One ought to recognize that the present political chaos is connected with the decay of language. . . .” Poetry is not the entire solution to keeping the nation’s language clear and honest, but one is hard pressed to imagine a country’s citizens improving the health of its language while abandoning poetry.The second reason why the situation of poetry matters to all intellectuals is that poetry is not alone among the arts in its marginal position. If the audience for poetry has declined into a subculture of specialists, so too have the audiences for most contemporary art forms, from serious drama to jazz. The unprecedented fragmentation of American high culture during the past half century has left most arts in isolation from one another as well as from the general audience. Contemporary classical music scarcely exists as a living art outside university departments and conservatories. Jazz, which once commanded a broad popular audience, has become the semi-private domain of aficionados and musicians. (Today even influential jazz innovators cannot find places to perform in many metropolitan centers–and for an improvisatory art the inability to perform is a crippling liability.) Much serious drama is now confined to the margins of American theater, where it is seen only by actors, aspiring actors, playwrights, and a few diehard fans. Only the visual arts, perhaps because of their financial glamour and upper-class support, have largely escaped the decline in public attention.

How Poets Can Be Heard

THE most serious question for the future of American culture is whether the arts will continue to exist in isolation and decline into subsidized academic specialties or whether some possibility of rapprochement with the educated public remains. Each of the arts must face the challenge separately, and no art faces more towering obstacles than poetry. Given the decline of literacy, the proliferation of other media, the crisis in humanities education, the collapse of critical standards, and the sheer weight of past failures, how can poets possibly succeed in being heard? Wouldn’t it take a miracle?

Toward the end of her life Marianne Moore wrote a short poem called “O To Be a Dragon.” This poem recalled the biblical dream in which the Lord appeared to King Solomon and said, “Ask what I shall give thee.” Solomon wished for a wise and understanding heart. Moore’s wish is harder to summarize. Her poem reads,

If I, like Solomon, . . .
could have my wish--
my wish . . . O to be a dragon,
a symbol of the power of Heaven–of silkworm
size or immense; at times invisible.
Felicitous phenomenon!

Moore got her wish. She became, as all genuine poets do, “a symbol of the power of Heaven.” She succeeded in what Robert Frost called “the utmost of ambition”–namely “to lodge a few poems where they will be hard to get rid of.” She is permanently part of the “felicitous phenomenon” of American literature.So wishes can come true–even extravagant ones. If I, like Marianne Moore, could have my wish, and I, like Solomon, could have the self-control not to wish for myself, I would wish that poetry could again become a part of American public culture. I don’t think this is impossible. All it would require is that poets and poetry teachers take more responsibility for bringing their art to the public. I will close with six modest proposals for how this dream might come true.

1. When poets give public readings, they should spend part of every program reciting other people’s work–preferably poems they admire by writers they do not know personally. Readings should be celebrations of poetry in general, not merely of the featured author’s work.

2. When arts administrators plan public readings, they should avoid the standard subculture format of poetry only. Mix poetry with the other arts, especially music. Plan evenings honoring dead or foreign writers. Combine short critical lectures with poetry performances. Such combinations would attract an audience from beyond the poetry world without compromising quality.

3. Poets need to write prose about poetry more often, more candidly, and more effectively. Poets must recapture the attention of the broader intellectual community by writing for nonspecialist publications. They must also avoid the jargon of contemporary academic criticism and write in a public idiom. Finally, poets must regain the reader’s trust by candidly admitting what they don’t like as well as promoting what they like. Professional courtesy has no place in literary journalism.

4. Poets who compile anthologies–or even reading lists–should be scrupulously honest in including only poems they genuinely admire. Anthologies are poetry’s gateway to the general culture. They should not be used as pork barrels for the creative-writing trade. An art expands its audience by presenting masterpieces, not mediocrity. Anthologies should be compiled to move, delight, and instruct readers, not to flatter the writing teachers who assign books. Poet-anthologists must never trade the Muse’s property for professional favors.

5. Poetry teachers especially at the high school and undergraduate levels, should spend less time on analysis and more on performance. Poetry needs to be liberated from literary criticism. Poems should be memorized, recited, and performed. The sheer joy of the art must be emphasized. The pleasure of performance is what first attracts children to poetry, the sensual excitement of speaking and hearing the words of the poem. Performance was also the teaching technique that kept poetry vital for centuries. Maybe it also holds the key to poetry’s future.

6. Finally poets and arts administrators should use radio to expand the art’s audience. Poetry is an aural medium, and thus ideally suited to radio. A little imaginative programming at the hundreds of college and public-supported radio stations could bring poetry to millions of listeners. Some programming exists, but it is stuck mostly in the standard subculture format of living poets’ reading their own work. Mixing poetry with music on classical and jazz stations or creating innovative talk-radio formats could re-establish a direct relationship between poetry and the general audience.

The history of art tells the same story over and over. As art forms develop, they establish conventions that guide creation, performance, instruction, even analysis. But eventually these conventions grow stale. They begin to stand between the art and its audience. Although much wonderful poetry is being written, the American poetry establishment is locked into a series of exhausted conventions–outmoded ways of presenting, discussing, editing, and teaching poetry. Educational institutions have codified them into a stifling bureaucratic etiquette that enervates the art. These conventions may once have made sense, but today they imprison poetry in an intellectual ghetto.

See “Hearing From Poetry’s Audience”(1992), in which Dana Gioia discusses the response to this article.Return to the Poetry Pages contents It is time to experiment, time to leave the well-ordered but stuffy classroom, time to restore a vulgar vitality to poetry and unleash the energy now trapped in the subculture. There is nothing to lose. Society has already told us that poetry is dead. Let’s build a funeral pyre out of the dessicated conventions piled around us and watch the ancient, spangle-feathered, unkillable phoenix rise from the ashes.


Dana Gioia’s essays and criticism have appeared in many periodicals, including The Atlantic Monthly, The Nation, and The New Yorker. He is a translator and anthologist of Italian poetry, including the Mottetti of Eugenio Montale (Graywolf, 1990). Mr. Gioia is also the author of two books of poetry, Daily Horoscope (Graywolf, 1986) and The Gods of Winter (Graywolf, 1991). His May 1991 article in The Atlantic Monthly became the title essay of his book Can Poetry Matter? (Graywolf, 1992).


Copyright © 1991 by Dana Gioia. All rights reserved.
The Atlantic Monthly; May, 1991; “Can Poetry Matter?”; Volume 267, No. 5; pages 94-106.

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Do you need a rhyming dictionary?

I thought I’d like to write a rhyme

How do people find the time ?

Without being pushed into a crime

I don’t know whether you can mime

Spare a dollar or a dime.

I thought a lemon was a lime

Why do people mind the chimes?

I went upstairs,it was a climb

To have a stairlift is a crime

I am god;oh I’m I’m I’m

Somewhere one must draw a line.

Sometimes people pay a fine.

What is yours is mine and mine.

All that money can combine

If you disappear I’ll pine.

Go to bed it’s long past nine

Why on earth do we use rhymes?

You don’t need a smartphone: a practical, personal guide to downgrading your device | Well actually | The Guardian

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2025/jan/14/switching-smartphone-for-dumbphone-guide

Idleness is a lost art, and is in my opinion essential to mental health and creativity. I spend a good part of the day just flipping through periodicals, drinking cups of tea, poking clumsily at the piano……