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Top 10 Poetry Pet Peeves

10. Nevermind, this post is a waste of time. But railing against poet blogs is like railing against reality TV: Neither have much to do with people's actual lives and you can always surf to something else, or turn it off.
  9. The professionalization, which is basically the academicization, of "creative writing." It has fostered a neglect (if not fear) of heights, of lightness and of depth, in favor of that which ripples outward along the surface. Ultimately, though, this can't be too big a deal because it can't affect the "real work," only the reception of it.
  8. Attacks against the professionalization and academicization by neo-con poemeisters, which too easily tie in with the larger cultural disdain for intelligence and art and especially the two together, and might make any distaste for professionalization and academicization seem purely reactionary and rear garde.
  7. The sociology of poet communities as a topic of concern and aggressive posturing. See academic (about the eighth definition or so).
  6. The John Doe Award for Poetry. The Jane Doe Award for Poetry. The Tweedledee Prize in Poetry. The Tweedledum Prize in Poetry. The What-a-Year-It-Was Award in Poetry. The Etc. Prize in Etc. Poetry Etc.
  5. Prose poems as a specialty—write short stories or something—and, more generally, calls for genre bending works that transgress verse/prose/fiction/essay distinctions and waft across Borders and settle in formal blind spots. Also, calls for moratoriums on certain subjects or forms.
  4. Continual flogging of dead-horse confessionalism, esp. combined with über-avant anti-lyric-eye gouging.
  3. Interviews—more now than you can shake the side of a barn with. Wait, that doesn't work. Whatever, from now on I shall (heh, shall) refer to interviews as killer tomatoes.
  2. Chapbooks—possibly more than you can wallpaper the side of every barn in the country with. At least electronic chpbks that suck don't waste paper.
  1. I keep trying to hit the bull's eye, when I'm lucky if I even nick the target. Meanwhile, kids cry for attention or something like food, dishes wait to be washed, dirty clothes get worn over and over, and wife fumes waiting for responses to questions never heard. . . . Also, giving up as a reoccurring theme.

Spontaneous Birthday Lines for T.S. (Belated)

In 1888, T.S. Eliot was born in St. Louis.
What does it mean to be an American
in the fine art of el Dia de los Muertos altar making?
This throwdown involves beer, sausage rolls, and meat,
plenty of sour cream and butter —
yellow cake, chocolate chips, and rainbow sprinkles—
what more could you want? Grilled sausages,
ice cream, a jumpy house for the kids? Time to dust
controversy throughout the religious world?
A mummified archbishop entombed in the altar?
That could be a rock ’n’ roll rumor
petting zoo for the kids, a hidden jewel
like growing orchids in the Arctic: "I used to spend
an hour, pacing the floor, chewing pencils.
I don't know if I ever expected it to take off,
but it did—like jet propulsion." Sweater puppies
advertised under EDUCATION 2006—
Back to School Guide. People don't realize
how rich this area is in art and music,
reclaimed lumber, vintage hardware and antique glass.
From house cats to a 24-foot stegosaurus,
from eagles to the Liberty Bell
after a glass of wine at the reception
for a talented group of seasoned and emerging writers
and a host of luminaries. "It's what we came
to do." There is such a broad base of talent here
which begins with the last man on Earth.

The Bukowski Bull

The Bukowski Bull, originally uploaded by nobodyintherain.

Not the biggest fan of Bukowski’s poetry, but this page, from the InDesign file of yet another upcoming posthumous book (The People Look Like Flowers at Last), caught my eye—not sure I've ever seen so many useless guides dropped on a page before, but they somehow seem to improve the poem.

In Honor of the 2006 Football Season

 
2005

Poetry could not
sustain me through
the dark hours of
the Cowboy season.

When lusty Panther
cheerleaders got
busted, I barely
noticed the void

chicken-scratched
across its once-blank
check
          or how I felt
setup.
 

Welcome to the World, Dash

With a cough and a cry
our bungalow grows
a little more crowded
with umbilical love
as if consciousness could
expand or wing itself
                                fly.

Strum

The content and opinions expressed on this blog do not necessarily reflect the views of, nor are they endorsed by, the poem.

The poem will not acquiesce to poet distinctions of truth and untruth, perfect and imperfect, whole and fragment, cooked and raw, objective and confessional, scratch and exhaust, home and away, center and circumference, armpit and snatch, handout and charlatan, bogus and brave, benign and beyond, child and parent, open and closed, waking and sleep, service and severance, vaccine and virus, apostle and apostate, known and unknown, forgiving and unforgiving, what and what not, more and less, self and other, tenured and diapered, all or nothing.

One Trick

One Trick, originally uploaded by nobodyintherain.