In the beginning there was prose. Its purpose was to convey information: either truth and/or useful fiction (e.g. sagas, myths, fables, et cetera). Argument and opinion soon followed.
Later, poetry was developed to preserve words in memory.
Not until this century did a third mode of speech appear.
LieJacking
This new meta-category is the opposite of both previous modes. It is used exclusively for diversion and obfuscation, if not outright mendacity, and/or for useless blather. Even as it is being uttered, both speaker and listeners seem to be putting in considerable effort to forget it.
The intent is not to follow a subject, or even to change it, but to kidnap the conversation away from any modicum of coherence or relevance. It is not merely some nascent form of cryptocrap. It is not just the illiterati's attempt at postmodernism. It is the verbal equivalent of anti-matter.
"...you've neglected the basic need of making sense."
- Margaret Ann Griffiths (Eratosphere, 09-21-2007)
"To have great poets, there must be great audiences."
Walt Whitman said a mouthful here. This has been true for as long as humankind has had language, 100,000 years by conservative estimates. In preliterate societies audiences defined poetry itself as being whatever was preserved verbatim; that which was left behind was prose.
Because of this, audiences developed mnemonics to help the tribe preserve its culture in poetry. Indeed, prosody might be humanity's first science.
Skipping forward to today, a novice on a showcase site wondered if it were possible for an unschooled individual to create a noteworthy poem. This is a variation on the venerated question:
"Can 100 monkeys on 100 typewriters for 100 years produce Shakespeare?"
The answer is "Yes" but, by my calculation, someone who doesn't know an anapest from Budapest or diaeresis from diarrhea will win two lotteries before producing a remarkable poem. Even if they could, another classic cliché raises its head:
"If a tree falls in the forest does anybody hear?"
Without one of those great audience members Whitman spoke about, the answer will be "No". Without these "bird dogs", the few efforts worth preserving may be overlooked. For example, two of the great poems of this century were created by newcomers. When "How Aimée remembers Jaguar" was posted to a critical forum one critic said: "Change nothing." Years later, when an editor asked if that critic could help him out of a dry spell the latter pulled a well worn hardcopy of that poem out of his back pocket.
As fortuitous as that was, "There are Sunflowers in Italy" only drew attention after it was translated into English. Without that, we might never have seen one of the century's great sentences (describing the poetry mentor languishing in prison before, it seems, his execution):
You wrote your verses with your veins, cold against the wall.
Something to remember the next time we're tempted to complain about critics!
We end on a stark note: There can be no "great audiences" in print, or in a population that doesn't learn the rudiments of poetry.
Half a century ago grade six students were taught basic scansion, meaning that they understood the elements of poetry better than most English PhDs today. Because these college graduates cannot speak, let alone authoritatively, about the rudiments of verse, they need to focus on interpretation instead of intrinsic merit.
This gave us obscure texts which professors could waste entire semesters "analyzing". It has become a co-dependency, a causation spiral of incoherence and tenuous inference. It spawned two generations of "experts" with no knowledge of or interest in learning the definition, let alone the elements, of poetry.
Earl Gray's 77th Law.
CryptoCrap was born out of the ashes of poetry's funeral pyre. It was the perfect solution: easy to produce, easy to find, impossible to define. One could, for example, use software to translate it back and forth into foreign languages until the syntax was sufficient distorted to call it "postmodern poetry". The fact that it had no artistic, entertainment, technical, performance, or educative value didn't seem a problem. That no one, including the author, bothered to perform it was lost on prose mongers, as was the existence of poetry as a mode of speech. Magazines and English teachers had an infinite, ready supply of word puzzles to ponder, disseminate, and discuss. It was easy for pseudointellectuals too lazy to learn whether "The Red Wheelbarrow" is free verse or metrical to "philosophize" endlessly about its meaning. (Hint: It is not "written in a brief, haiku-like free-verse form.") This passed for "literary criticism": an absurd notion that arid brain droppings are inherently superior to adolescent heart farts.
Disinterested readers saw through this pretense and gave up on poetry (other than song lyrics). Yes, the majority of poetry geeks are still academics but they are an endangered subspecies of literary scholars. In truth, the average English teacher or professor today probably couldn't conduct a lesson without descending into annotation. (Pro Tip: Get your students involved by scanning their favorite songs.)
Newcomers often ask: "Why don't people read or 'Like' my poetry?"
It's not like others are every bit as fascinated by the autobiographies, diary entries, and yearnings of strangers as you are. Or aren't interested in chatting and being sociable. Or that poems and poets could focus on something more distant than our navels. Heresy!
It's not like you are asking for a significant investment on the part of a reader. They skim a few lines, say something appreciative and encouraging, then they move on. What's the problem?
"So why are people ignoring my posts? It's not like there is a competition going on here, right?"
There may be any number of reasons unrelated to the work itself. Everyone has their favorites, preferring them to unknowns. Power politics may be in play, with others flattering those they feel may be able to help them. There may be a quid pro quo playing out, with pairs trading favorable evaluations. Styles may form alliances, with contributors of like mind supporting a group philosophy or aesthetic.
Aside from these human foibles, there is a good chance that some of the contributors are using tricks. Dirty, underhanded tricks! And not even new ones! Some of these go back centuries or millennia--even to the beginnings of language!
These sneaky subterfuges come in two categories: brevity (no wasted words!) and repetition. The latter can involve anything from whole choruses and lines ("repetends") to sounds (e.g. rhyme, assonance, consonance, alliteration) and rhythms (e.g. iambs: de DUM de DUM; the beats of a song, etc.). It's as if these people are trying to get people to not only notice their words but to remember them as well. Weird.
To show what extent these bastards will go to, let us look at an extreme, admittedly obscure example. Hand this stanza from DPK's "Beans" to someone and ask them to read it aloud to you:
September came like winter's ailing child but left us viewing Valparaiso's pride. Your face was always saddest when you smiled. You smiled as every doctored moment lied. You lie with orphans' parents, long reviled.
Listen to the rhythm of those stressed syllables. Ask them to read it to you a second time.
Do you hear how final that last word seems? How it sounds like a triumphant "Ta Da!" at the end of a performance?
Diaeresis is an ancient stunt usually relating to a break in the middle of a line. Here we have terminal diaeresis, which is more esoteric still. The magic effect comes from ending an iambic (de DUM) passage with an iambic word ("reVILED"); all previous two-syllable words were trochaic (DUM-de, i.e. "WINters", "AILing", "VIEWing", "ALways", "SADdest", "EV'ry", "DOCtor'd", "MOMent", "ORPHans", "PARents").
Over 99.9% of poets wouldn't know diaeresis from diarrhea. It's that rare.
How long has this stuff been going on? Terminal diaeresis wasn't new when Shakespeare developed it in his sonnets, circa 1600. Thus, today's poets are so desperate for attention that they are pulling 400 year old rabbits out of their butts! Worse yet, there are sites and articles dedicated to proliferating these dark arts, this being one of them.
One of the many symptoms of poetry's death was the disappearance of contemporary poetry performance. Indeed, apart from Shakespearean plays and some hurried readings by Dylan Thomas, Anthony Hopkins, and Michael Caine, the world is bereft of convincing performances as opposed to readings, recitations, and overwrought original bleatings. (If you have found one please let us know below.) This has become an arcane art.
1. Memorize the words.
You wouldn't want to see actors reading from scripts on Broadway. The presenter needs to see--or seem to see, in the case of cameras--the audience and their reactions.
2. Forget that you memorized the words.
The language has to be natural and believable, as if the speaker were formulating each thought before expressing it.
3. Practice until it seems unpracticed.
Cliché Alert: "Make the words your own."
Practice until it seems like normal speech (if appropriately impassioned in places). Use a mirror or, better yet, a camera [phone] to record yourself.
Use your down time. Carry a copy of a poem with you to the bathroom, into waiting rooms, onto buses, while walking the dog, etc. Don't worry what your neighbors will say. They already think you're crazy.
4. Go to open mic events. Participate once you're comfortable doing so.
If you are too shy, find a friend who has some acting chops. Form a partnership. Elton John to your Bernie Taupin.
As an exercise, consider starting with one of the two finest poems of this century, "Studying Savonarola", written by the greatest poet of our time, the late Margaret A. Griffiths. This is a piece that, in the hands of an inspired performer, works much better on the stage than the page. (Its counterpart, "Beans", may be too difficult for anyone but a seasoned actress.) Given the lack of competition, if you can nail this you could make history.
A final tip: One of the very few editors who appreciates the performance aspect of poetry is John Amen of Pedestal Magazine.
At five in the afternoon.
It was just five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A basket of lime made ready
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death and only death
at five in the afternoon.
The wind blew the cotton wool away
at five in the afternoon.
And oxide scattered nickel and glass
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard fight
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolate horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-pipe sound began
at five in the afternoon.
The bells of arsenic, the smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Silent crowds on corners
at five in the afternoon.
And only the bull with risen heart!
at five in the afternoon.
When the snow-sweat appeared
at five in the afternoon.
when the arena was splashed with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
death laid its eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At just five in the afternoon.
A coffin on wheels for his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes sound in his ear
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull bellows on his brow
at five in the afternoon.
The room glows with agony
at five in the afternoon.
Now out of distance gangrene comes
at five in the afternoon.
Trumpets of lilies for the green groin
at five in the afternoon.
Wounds burning like suns
at five in the afternoon,
and the people smashing windows
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ay, what a fearful five in the afternoon!
It was five on every clock!
It was five of a dark afternoon!
Learning Poetry - 4. Performance (in three minutes)
