regarded hunter with mild interest but had no flash of human recognition whatever as though they were seeing an ad for a product they’d heard of buying had no flash of but had no intention of human recognition of human recognition whatever
as though hunter was seeing an ad for a product they were seeing an ad for a product they were seeing an ad for a product they’d heard of but had no interest
but had no interest but had no intention but had no interest no intention whatever as though hunter had heard of no intention whatever as though they were seeing an ad for a product they were buying
“You don’t need a story. The question is How long do you not need a story?” David Shields
trip to me enormous plain
country and fresh hewn political mistakes
the expat freshly hung perceives literacy
the expert mistakes the recluse for submission
interlocking memories poppies' capital the recluse
submits to christmas lights not man
emergency radio transmission the christmas lights
return to simple flame he lands back in seclusion
he beats the expert with a freshly hewn political mistake
the recluse who survives his owner's engine
vapor days like lightning through the enormous plain's country
not many political witnesses
perceived literacy deranged
owner of engine failure
all in a day's enormous plain good country
mistakes among poppy red capital
christmas lights back on man-ends
of flames of beats an emergency radio transmission
the gun-toting argument broadcasts its perception
recluse deception shame among poppies
submission poppies an expert freshly hanged
from perceived literacy ambition and witness perception
like christmas lights on a boring white wall not much
poppies beat against the flag pole like political mistakes
his first trip to the river's
the stranger's
body's
so
awfully glad
the USA stranger's body's still
so
awfully
glad to be
conscripted to be a
brain
to be here for
you all
a useless
day?
to be
conscribed
to confidence
By the same
useless
day?
a stranger's
body's some awful-loan
the stranger's body's
all
to consider
disappointing
to be here
all I ever wanted
Can I
get another day
to be
Poetry is meaningless, cars are meaningless, thoughts are meaningless, action is meaningless, airplanes are meaningless, babies are meaningless… UNLESS they do something. That has broad implications, but this is a fact.
Cliche. Cliche. Cliche.
Everyone’s always arguing about the death/rebirth of poetry. Poetry hasn’t mattered on a conventional scale since… when? The industrial revolution? (That’s someone else’s sign post…) Since… The capitalist revolution.
You can’t sell a poem. You can’t BUY a poem. But Poetry can kill someone. A poem can take you from here to there. Poetry can kill you. Poetry can feed you. Poetry can pay for college and do keg stands and still earn an impossible 5.0.
If poetry means anything to you: Write it.
If you want to eat poetry: Fry it up and chow down.
If you want poetry to buy you a Maserati: Sew some poems together and pass them off for debit bucks.
If you want to craft poetry to change the word: WRITE A POEM THAT MATTERS.
I imagine this sounds like an indictment of poets, but really it’s an indictment on stupidity and complacency and the lowest common denominator that feeds a capitalist society. Poetry doesn’t work here because it’s not a big pink exploding orgasm of cash and communication, it functions in “myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.[1]“
A poem made me put my shopping cart back at the supermarket. A poem taught me to help a single mom carry her carriage down the steps of a subway station. A poem taught me how to smile in traffic (and engage in a proper zipper merge.)
That translates to a whole lot of “Who gives a shit?” But, really, think about it: The biggest problems of our time — war, poverty, racism, sexism, fast food, terrorism, reality TV — stretch out of a severe lack of empathy.
Poetry — the good stuff anyway — allows us to talk to each other intimately across the borders of death and distance and class and language.
You know?
Like I said… If poetry means anything to you you’ve GOT to write it. It’s not an option. (Even if your poetry sucks and no one would trade an ounce of spit for it… you eventually will get it to where it needs to be. Just keep writing.)
That’s why.
</RANT>
X.
I’m not arguing with your asking of the question. I’m arguing with the idea that the standards are the same between poetry and other arts and therefore poetry isn’t important or relevant.
You’re holding (many people hold) poetry up to a false standard. Big corporations don’t make huge cash from poetry: That’s the only way that poetry isn’t as highly valued as film, painting or music.
I can assure you to the THINKING public poetry is valued. Maybe not to the GENERAL public.
Now, think really hard about the GENERAL public. They like The Walking Dead, Interstellar, Imagine Dragons, Kanye West, (I’m hesitant to put contemporary art on this list because i suspect the average person doesn’t really doesn’t know) Jeff Koons, Marina Abramovic, etc etc etc.
What I’m proposing is that that work and the work of those artists has several large, hulking, wampum-powered machines behind them that tell the average person to like them. NPR, NYT, press agencies, ArtForum, paid bloggers, etc, stand beside Jeff Koons and send up fucking fireworks. Why would you not pay attention?
So what does that say about the (non-monetary) value of the work? NOTHING. What does that say about the relevance of the work? Well, that’s a more complicated question…
This is a similar question to the one the news industry is going through.
News is devalued because news is powerful and unpredictable and often bites the hand that feeds it. (Sound familiar.) Think about the patrons of the great poets. Think about Jeff Bezos and the Washington Post. (A thin analogy perhaps, I’m not in JB’s head: I don’t know his intentions (vanity? profit? enlightenment? adventure?))
So is your question: “How can we make poetry THRIVE!?” or “Why isn’t poetry thriving?”
or is it:
“Why isn’t poetry relevant?”
Because poetry *is* relevant (because I say so, and you can, too) and its importance is manifold.
Like I said: Poetry can kill or save or lift a people up or clarify thought (a la that very apropos quote via u/purplemarker) or do nothing or slither under your skin.
The great thing about poetry is anyone can do it.
The terrible thing about poetry is anyone can do it.
Writing it requires great intelligence and creativity and blood-curdling persistence.
Writing it only requires ~~a decent pen~~ a brain.
Reading it, however… well, reading it, unlike many other arts… requires the same set of tools that the author/artist possesses. I hadn’t thought of that before. That’s another INTRINSIC value of poetry. Can’t sell it, but there it is.
So, I guess the answer to your question is two-fold: externally poetry isn’t as widely appreciated anymore because there are many arts now that require much less of the observer. Poetry will always be “JUST WORDS.” (And that’s a great thing.) This makes poetry’s potential market share … como sei dici … umm … negligible? (That’s not exactly the right word, but, moving on…)
[Side note: When you intro a new dynamic format for poetry — slam, parole in libertà, for example— you will bring more consumers into the fold. Some will translate into readers others will return to the popular culture unfazed. So it goes.]
Secondly, a base analogy: poetry is like fucking. It’s great. It’s risky. It’s a challenge. It’s invigorating. It’s transcendent.
Masturbation is always an option, but it just doesn’t have the same charge to it.
No one has to justify the pleasures of sex to you. However, some people don’t like it. Some people don’t have great experiences, memories, whatever, around it. That’s fine. Your experience with fucking shouldn’t be hitched to John Smith’s sexual realities. You keep fucking (reading, writing) BECAUSE IT’S FUUUUCCCCKING.
And then there’s that nasty, inconvenient love part…
And then there’s that nasty, inconvenient propagation part…
(I could go on for ever with this analogy.)
Anyway, read poetry and you’ll find your answer. Read criticism and you’ll find more answers. Surround yourself with poetry and you’ll go super saiyan with love and empathy and respect and good will.
Your question is a fine one, the answer isn’t so simple. Instead of quoting or linking you to someone else’s passion, I told you mine.
Nonetheless, here are some links to enrich yourself that have definitely touched me:
the day in such a manMad art
Curry
had died it
was on the Dibble House and from Thomas Hart down
appeared if
as
a painting. Wood decided
this was the spirit. Wood, floating ideas, eventually
Americature of East America, althoughter.
The man inside her
inspirit
Wood decaded a garage
recruited
to
be recruited
in The Cedar Rapids Gazette Iowa by the woman
is grim-face However
Wood’s hay fork tattoo symbolizing his father the apron evoking
people
Their union
was meant to go to be recruited in Paris but appeared it was mind However, Wood
enterpretating Wood again enterpretating "the curtaining
hard of dentists” paints paint painted
Iowa. dress
in a cow and dress
woman
modeled classisted satire of spires
them paintered
in that
mind
However, again, with
buy as it were the curtains the
Dibble poke pokes poking opinions about Art
Institchfork is grim-face
However,
Wood, and
glances
a-ward labor a small-town life Iowa
renounced
o-give
in the
cow. “For here we are!” Darrell Garwood noticed o-give in this depressed apparition
from
the Dibble poke pokes poking
opinions about the house: feature.
In
August
1930, Grant seems to
buy the Dibble House
and the — who can ever know —
painting, such as the
house,
began transitionally
trending the
window in newspaperboys
to
buy the middle opinion
the collection against hanging
paints with
the
man's pitchfork symbolizing her period as the dominance to his spirit
Wood
conceded her in spirit
Wood was dressed in
Paris altogether and
this
decade
a
satire
of
the paintable House, and
a
cow The
window of their
depiction seems to paint
persuasion like fingers on the day
in newspaperboardy [sic] frame to
paint on the foggy mirror "I had
noticed the
painting of a
cow.” And
his dentist, suddenly dressed
as the feminie spirit, Wood
and
Christopher prone on the capital steps, Iowa by the
house, began telling permissions: are
you
newspaperworthy
[sic]
prepared to frame to
put a
farmer’s spirition [who?]
Smashing the
woman Elephant the sculpture
of "Don't Go
Breaking the
ancestors” awakens Mushu in
her Museum and — holding regularly Hillbillies —
Dexter derision-era like lace underneath,
is now on
the
painting
by
scrubs holding hanging tradition
house/horse/hosing
with Leonardo da Vinci's Mona
Lisa and a parody of
February 26,
2012,
with sitting by Shaun Classic
comic books,
along "Time Sequel Show,” by Richer Brian Moser
again, a parody of
television-era
key motif
in
1995 television house, and other known parody of: The
opening
on
display
2,000
Feet
Away,
while of the painting
the
master’s beg
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