Reports of Poetry's Health Are Greatly Exaggerated

Truth lies between.

Between extremes, that is. Poetry is not dead - and when the media says it is, they are turning over sod on an old grave. However, irrational exuberance does no one any good, in the marketplace (even of ideas), either. There's a consensus building among some quarters in British poetry that Poetry Is Truly Popular! The argument then goes something like this: if We Only Knew How To Connect With Poetry's Hungry, Tech-Literate Masses, We Could Sell Oodles Of Poetry Items.

As my grandfather Ian Hume used to say - come off the roof! The truth is, there is a groundswell of optimism, and a sense of new possibilities, as a new generation of younger poets takes hold of the various means of production and distribution that the new media afford them - much as the photocopying and lithograph moment of the 60s and 70s allowed for the British Poetry Revival (duly crushed by the big publishers and mainstream critics, so the story goes). However, this undeniably thrilling rise of several hundred younger poets, and performers, and Internet impresarios and editors, does not a revolution - or a mass audience - make. Having worked with American slam and spoken word artists in the 90s, when that was a truly popular American art form, I can attest to how seeming popularity and interest rarely translates into the cash register's ching-ching.

In fact, take a look at Facebook. I admin a Poetry group, and it has over 2,400 members. This all sounds promising. But groups with names like "When I Get A Million Members I Will Punch An Astronaut" have 180,000 members, and soaring. Facebook is the viral method of the moment - and a useful barometer. Even in its wildly contagious, and viral form, Poetry and Poets tend to get a smaller percentage of members, than almost any other topic, theme or subject, under the sun.

Poetry is an art, with elements it takes time to truly appreciate, even understand; it has complexity, and formal style, and does not merely appeal to the heart, or the funnybone - it also appeals to the mind or soul - it requires that people who engage with it, work at it. Maybe not puzzling out work - but a work of attention, and seriousness, none the less. Poetry that is any good cannot merely be entertainment, whereas great movies and songs can be, because that is partly their genre's remit. Poetry asks of us, and yields as much as we give it.

Poetry rarely connects directly with the audience of its day - and the poetry that does, tends to be rubbish later on. Kipling diminishes in our estimation; Walter de la Mare more so. Poets barely read while alive (poor Whitman, who published his own books) and Hopkins prove this. The Georgian Moment had its tub-thumping publishers, like Marsh, and Monro, who managed to sell anthologies to tens of thousands of people (as I have done with Oxfam, as Bloodaxe does, as Salt does). However, novels sold far more widely - and still do.

Poetry is a minority interest, like chess, or mathematics, or philosophy. It is a noble, vital, and necessary part of human life - but it can no longer claim a central role. It appeals, generally, to the young, and the older - those filled either with enthusiasm and energy, or those with time on their hands, to reflect on timeless emotions and thoughts. Those in their middle years - busy parents, engineers, pilots, ad executives, accountants, violinists, etc. - less so. Time is priceless, and people prefer to spend their time, more and more, on other things - downloading films, music, or what have you. There may be harm and sadness in this - the idea that Poetry saves lives, and heals all is lovely, but unfounded (most poets do not enjoy much fruit from the Poetry Tree). However, it seems truer than claiming Poetry, like Destry, Rides Again!

I am glad publishers want to promote, and publish, good young poets. Salt, for instance, has published ten or twelve poets, recently, who should have had books out years ago, and in a less restricted and old-fashioned environment, would have had. Small dynamic UK presses can make an impact now, in the next few years, because there has been an extraordinary logjam. Publishing younger poets, though, before they have fully formed their own poetic, or sense of poetry, does no one any good, in the long run. If everyone gets published, no one does, because publication becomes virtually meaningless. Wearing shoes is no longer a noteworthy event in London, because it is so commonplace.

The idea that everyone will be a poet on their blog, or Facebook group, in the future, renders poetry banal, trivial, easy, and ultimately boring. Poetry is not a new dance craze, or the latest pop song. It is not a fashion - though poets and poetic styles go in and out of fashion. Poetry is an age old, ever-reviving, art of great beauty, power, and worth. It needs a thoughtful husbandry, unless it is to become wanton. Salesmen may claim poetry is more alive than ever, but they may be more likely singing of the death of Aesop's goose. Golden eggs of the sun, silver eggs of the moon.

Salt: Into The Hands of the People

An interesting post from Curiosa Hamiltona on Salt's Brave New World pronouncements. A lot of Salt's blog post sounds like the sort of thing I (and many other poetry activists) have been saying (and fighting for) for the last ten or more years (i.e., open up a space for more poets, more readers, and use the net do so). My six-year-old essay for Vallum, above, for instance, suggests the idea of a fragmented, diverse, and lifestyle-based audience for poets.

This poetry activisim, on my part, was never done to make money - maybe even to lose money - (I am not a "salesman"). I have shown conviction, by sticking to a long-time policy of supporting various kinds of poetries and poetics (Fusion Poetry), and encouraging free or easy access to poetry, via new media. However, when I say this, some radical critics call me a capitalist or worse (though I advocate mainly free distribution via the Internet) - but when Salt puts it into practice, they are somehow suddenly above reproach.

The idea that poetry is "for everyone" is good in principle, but trite pap when put into practice. Read Bernstein, among others, on this. There is a little thing called "taste" - and sadly, in Britain, most people without much experience of poetry express an interest in precisely the sort of neo-Georgian slice-of-life empirical rubbish that Salt poets and poetics used to question, and present a viable alternative to. The Salt "brand" is in danger of becoming meaningless - all things to all people.

Salt is right to note that the arrival of an under-40 generation of poets and performers using the Internet, stage tours, and other digital means, signals a relatively new wave of production, and consumption of poetry (one that has, in fact, been happening, since the late 90s). I am an administrator of the first, and one of the largest, Facebook poetry groups, for example, with over 2,400 active members. This wave of writing is simply not reviewed, or discussed, with any seriousness, in the British media, even in that section concerned with literary coverage - nor is it represented by most publishers of poetry in the UK - although Eggbox and other small presses are starting to do it.

If there is a poem or poet for every reader, how soon do we devolve down the lonely path to a private-language scenario, or a "that painting goes well with my walls" attitude. Poetry can be difficult. It is not meant to only please, or entertain, or appeal to, readers - but to confront, provoke, and challenge (as Salt's own back catalogue establishes).

Guest Review: Oey on The Edge of Love

Jennifer Oey reviews
The Edge of Love

Directed by John Maybury and written by Sharman Macdonald, the film was released in the UK on June 20th following a lengthy mess and confusion of misdirected hype that has led reviewers and the public to expect a biopic of Dylan Thomas replete with a good old lesbian romp. This is a crying shame because it does a disservice to all involved in this bold interpretation of a complex relationship.

The film stars Keira Knightly as Dylan Thomas’s first love, Vera Phillips, and Sienna Miller as his wife, Caitlin Thomas, and focuses closely on the relationship these two women developed initiated by their shared love of the Welsh poet played by Cardiff born Matthew Rhys. The two men central to the story, Dylan and William Killick (Cillian Murphy), take a back seat in this case, as many wives and girlfriends have done over the course of film history.

Unfortunately it didn’t take the media long to invent a host of rumours (read: lies) about Knightly and Miller that effectively belittled their roles in the film. Mick Jagger’s threats to sue the BBC further confused matters: Jagger owns the rights to a large chunk of Thomas’s works, and took issue with Maybury’s inclusion of a reference to Map of Love (the title was shown in background of a scene) that resulted in post-production ‘removal’ to stop legal action from proceeding. Jagged Films is rumoured to be producing a Dylan Thomas biopic in the near future entitled, Map of Love. All of this attention focussed on Thomas and his poetry quite reasonably led folks to believe that his character would be more thoroughly examined than it is in this case.

Eyewear raises a potent concern in a previous post, The Edge of the Map of Love, about the apparent incongruity of mass culture and poetry. Few films dare to put a poet at their centre and those that do (Sylvia, Molière etc…) do not expect a large payoff at the box office and aren’t usually disappointed in this respect. Those who are interested in a filmic exploration of Thomas’s life and career will have to keep their fingers crossed that Jagged Films follow through with Map of Love as it’s hard to imagine how anyone else could make an endearing film about the poet without access to his major works.

Edge’s story is actually about Caitlin – Dylan’s troubled alcoholic philandering wife – and Vera – possibly Dylan’s first love and subsequent lover/mistress. The focus of the film is the convoluted relationship between these two complex women: a work of fiction based on true events. Both Macdonald and Maybury have taken poetic license and neither has denied that this is the case; this is an exploration of the relationship between two strong and self-sufficient women who find friendship and comfort in their closest rival. Miller and Knightly have a calculated chemistry on screen and it is intriguing to watch these two women care for each other, watch each other, and nearly destroy each other. Dylan Thomas is obviously an integral character in the story and, if not for him, the story of these two women and the speculation about their relationship would not ever have been of interest to a wide audience (and it’s unlikely that it has more than a moderate audience now) and this cannot and should not be ignored.

People will likely be of two minds about Dylan: some will find him despicable and selfish, and others, like Vera seems to, will find him to be charming but destructively child-like. Rhys’ performance perfectly compliments Miller and Knightly. As the man who selfishly wants them both always within reach, he is at once charming and full of himself and his poetry; and yet despicable and cowardly. And Cillian Murphy’s William Killick is his perfect foil: fit and able to serve in the war, single-mindedly devoted to one woman, and justifiably driven to drink by the horrors he eventually witnesses. Maybury’s intention to shoot the film like a documentary has resulted in a slight lack of focus in the building tension and ultimate climax of the film, but is nonetheless an compelling and well-executed portrait of Caitlin, Vera, Dylan, and William – crucially, in this order.

The Edge of Love beautifully and richly evokes the era of the Second World War despite, as Maybury puts it, leaving some work for the audience to do. Unlike many Hollywood period pieces, and indeed the recent Atonement, this film (bravely) does not have sweeping scenes filled with period-correct cars and paraphernalia. Instead, Maybury lets the period seep through the perfect red lips, floral dresses, pert hairstyles, and daring performances. It is highly effective and lets the focus be on the characters rather than the sets. This is not to say that there is any lack of mis-en-scene: the ballroom the bomb strikes is suitably opulent; the bars and underground cabaret are seedy; and the Welsh house on the cliff is scratchy, cold, and fraught with tension.

A biopic focussed on Thomas and his poetry is certainly something to look forward to and many of us will pin our hopes on Jagged Films in this regard. The Edge of Love, when seen for what it is meant to be – and not plagued with out-dated notions that dictate a protagonist to be, by default, male – is frankly an Oscar-worthy achievement.

Jennifer Oey is a Canadian writer and filmmaker currently based in Britain.

Turner Prized: Simon Armitage Praises Alex Turner's Lyrics

The Guardian's been running a series, all week, of little pamphlet inserts, titled Great Lyricists (of what isn't made clear, but the mainly contemporary scene, apparently). Of the eight, two are Canadian, and one was born near the Canadian border (Cohen, Joni Mitchell, and Dylan). Three more are entirely American (Springsteen, Patti Smith and Chuck D). Two are British (which is very international of The Guardian: the bitter genius Morrissey, and Arctic Monkeys frontman Alex Turner). One wonders where John Lennon or Ian Dury are - and further back, the two undisputed heavyweights of song lyrics of the 20th century (in English) Cole Porter and Noel Coward.

Turner seems a little out of his league. What comes across - and this isn't the first time I have thought of this issue given I have been interested in spoken word poetry for the last 14 years or so - is how bare the lyrics mainly are. Chuck D's and Dylan's and Cohen's are the best, because they bring the music with them, into the words. Armitage admits that "songwriters are not poets" in his Introduction. He also makes big claims about British poetry: "Nothing, in my view, characterises British poetry of the last 50 years more than the 'sketch'. Modernism has sent up its pyrotechnics, but stories and scenes still fuel the hearth fire, and Turner is a storyteller and scene-setter."

This suggests a few of the problems with the current British "mainstream" approach to art and culture since 1950. Armitage's easily made differentiation between "modernism" on the one hand, and "storytelling" on the other, is not entirely useful. It seems to return us to the idea (that Larkin bandied about) that, on the one hand, there was something English, decent, and lucid (a la Orwell) about plainspoken poetry with nice stories in it - and then there was Picasso, Parker, and all that weird, indeterminate, and ultimately heartless jazz. Clarity is all.

Well, let's wheel out Adorno; or rather, simply observe that issues such as what the lyric does, and how it relates to experience, are problematic, and intriguing, precisely because the texture and materiality of text (and the complexities of the corporeally-based speaking voice) are rich and strange. What Turner does - very well - is replicate (or mimic) - how a certain kind of young British person speaks, usually among themselves, on a night out, in a bar, dance club, or in a cab on the way home. This mirroring of "nature" is impressive, and artfully, and wittily handled. But does Turner turn this reflection back onto the way of speaking, the mode of style, itself? What is Turner saying about saying it like it is on the dancefloor, or what his "regional identity" really has to do with his language? Tony Harrison, and Armitage, himself, among others, have written of, and through, their post-Butler Act poetic eloquence from intriguing regional perspectives. W.S. Graham, who was a modernist, but also proud of his regional identity, managed to speak something about whereof we can.

Well, see you later, innovator. Or hear you later, maybe. In the meantime, poems can and should move beyond the sketch (at least some of the time) or scene. TV and the novel do that better, anyway. What poetry "does" best of all is poetic, not ordinary, language. Artifice, not reflection, perhaps, of the way things "are". Says who?

Poem by Jenna Butler

Eyewear is happy to welcome Jenna Butler (pictured) this Canada Day Weekend. Butler was born in Norwich, England in 1980, but has spent most of her life on the prairies of Western Canada. The varied landscapes of the prairies and mountains feature prominently in her poetry and fiction. Her work has been awarded a number of prizes and has appeared in print, onstage, and on the air for several years, both at home and abroad. She lives in Edmonton with her husband, where, among other things, she teaches, is finishing up a PhD, and runs a small poetry press, Rubicon.

I got to know her during the year we both did the MA in Creative Writing (Poetry) at the University of East Anglia (UEA), Norwich - at that point she had come full circle.

Jenna's a poet of great gifts, with a brilliant mind and rare ear for the best, least expected word. I expect to hear much more of her work in future.


Keswick

The light here just off-true;
sight blurred by cloud, by distance.

What opens: flint-riddled hills,
church cradled like balm.

Bridle path at dusk,
rank and white with hawthorn.

The rookery: a cuckoo
borrows dark wings.

Cow parsley shatters into bloom.
Our grief in the forgetting.

poem by Jenna Butler

Gordon Brown and Paddington Bear

Paddington, who has turned "50" this week, lived with "The Browns". His childish, sweet, and decent manner fitted in perfectly with this 1950s family (and their awkward bicycle clips). Meanwhile, another Mister Brown, Gordon, turns "1" this year - well, anyway, as Prime Minister.

The jury is still out. Polls are in - he's the least popular of his ilk since John Major, or, some say, ever. Did he get into a spot of bother over some buns and marmalade? More like Northern Rock, a bottled election, and other dithering. The most unlikely supporter, recalling Marilyn Monroe (like Paddington, but less content), has stepped forward, to "sing for" Gordon Brown: none other than significant British poet-critic-publisher, Michael Schmidt.

Eyewear has long felt that Brown has failed to deliver the principled, and left-leaning, direction his originally-exciting ascension promised, last June - however, the Professor of Poetry makes a good case for giving the good man more time. And, surely, anyone Mr. Mugabe wants to excorcise from Number Ten should be allowed to stay a little longer. Brown is not yet a "tragic failure of leadership". David Cameron, that slick salesman, might be.

Poetry Focus: Jay Meek

Jay Meek by William Stobb

A great American poet and teacher passed away last fall. After a four-year decline due to Alzheimer's disease, Jay Meek passed away at age 70. From Jay, I learned that men can be calm, speak with reason and proportion, and engage the world with a precise kind of care. And I learned that poetry- this slightest, most fragile form of writing- can fully honor our experience of the world.

Jay published eight collections with Carnegie Mellon University Press. He earned fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Bush Foundation. He read his works by invitation at the U.S. Library of Congress.

Working toward a Master's degree under Jay's instruction, I had one of those rare experiences- a period of time where I knew I was receiving a very special gift, even as it was being given to me. Since then, I have continued to be grateful to Jay's instruction as it comes to me in his poems, and in his remarkable letters, which graced my life until he became ill in 2003.

More than ever, our young people need a mindfulness at the core of their being - so little of our cultural discourse models that.

May we all live without self-importance or apology,
work at what matters, and listen
while others talk about the things they know well.

from "Internal Exile," one of the new poems in Jay Meek's Headlands: New and Selected Poems (Carnegie Mellon 1997)

Note: a longer version of this remembrance can be heard on William Stobb's miPOradio podcast, "Hard to Say."

William Stob is an American poet.