is the work of making and reflecting the world. We are the world? We are of it, in it, reaping it, breaking it, building, patching, sewing, seaming, composting, revising, whitewashing, thatching, stripping, and collaging it daily. Every moment.
Rather than write about the Ashbery profile mentioned a few posts ago (okay, I suppose it’s a nice primer for the uninitiated, but I didn’t really learn anything new since I only read about one fourth of it), I want to make another one of my simplistic notes that spiraled like a thin tendril from my head as I read.
So there is culture proper—the societally-dispensed material we “receive”—and there is attention to the making and mechanics of culture: hyper-culture? Meta-culture? Artifice? Benjamin or Bernstein anyone?
Anyway, one element that is a major part of and enables culture, among other things, is language. Without language, could we think? Communicate? Painting is a language. Images communicate. But words. Words are the directions, the engine, and the steering wheel of our everyday relations.
And poets. Poets are the workers of words. They watch words, noting how they mean. But they go beyond the study of linguistics; poets manipulate and create. They try-out and test-run language constructions. Poets choose and move words around, toying with how they mean, often dissecting along the way.
Poets are not so popular in the mainstream. Poet as superstar? Nope. Poets’ products, works of poetry, are not in high-demand. Poetry books don’t make for popular commodities. Why?
One reason might be: poets point out the seams. As Ricky Fitts noted, Never underestimate the power of denial. People want their word constructions to entertain; they usually want to absorb specific types of writing for entertainment purposes. Very few want to get tangled in the puppets’ strings or notice the cardboard props on a sitcom set or how genre writing is geared toward a conditioned reception. In other words, we get the sentiment we buy and expect.
In “A Transatlantic Interview 1946,” Gertrude Stein quoted her friend, “Picasso said, ‘You see, the situation is very simple. Anybody that creates a new thing has to make it ugly. The effort of creation is so great, that trying to get away from the other things, the contemporary insistence, is so great that the effort to break it gives the appearance of ugliness.’”
Is poetry ugly? Sometimes poets don’t attract the masses. They aren’t making seamless scintillating narratives for the world to purchase. Poetry shovels into culture proper, identifying, manipulating, and discarding the mulch along the way. Sometimes, this offends the masses, who love the mulch. I am part of the mulch and enjoy a good bit of it, which makes me wonder why the work of my pen will most likely never be appreciated by more than a handful of others (not that such appreciation isn’t appreciated!). Is this pull paradoxical: to write in such a way that requires a divorcing of one’s self from the desire for a popular reception but also to simultaneously desire a sense of appreciation that feeds society’s hunger for easily-consumable mulch?
This is not to negate other forms of appreciation … or to imply that appreciation is the only reason we write. However, audience is another question related to “why write,” and one form of audience in this culture is the audience we are each a part of, that of the masses, even if we choose to reject our assigned roles.
So if poetry were to gain in status from the point of view of the masses, we might next ask if the popularization of poetry would lead to its demise? Would poetry simply be synonymous with “Hallmark verse culture?” Maybe. I’m guessing so. But I can’t speak for everyone. And I’m talking in circles tonight, so I’ll just bow out of my own monologue now. Happy Saturday night!