Tuesday, October 13, 2009
As an avid reader of poetry, and a sometime scribbler of it as well, I'm on of the few people I know in this corner of the world who has an interest in poetry. I thought that maybe it's a modern thing, that other mediums of communication and entertainment had developed that simply left no space for poetry, sidelining it to a few dusty geriatrics in a corner of a already dusty library. But the startling thing is that poetry is alive, and not coveted by sextagenarians exclusively, but brandished around by people of all ages as a powerful force in literature, and now, all of a sudden, poetry seems to be kicking hard in all directions shouting like Frankensteins' monster about the nature of it's existence. It's alive alright, but it isn't well. Carol Anne Duffy as poet Laureate? Have you read any of her poetry? Read one sentence and try to remember it tomorrow. It's impossible for any normal person, and possible exclusively for people who enjoy watching Eggheads. Now give me a Larkin, Thomas or even a Watkins and I'll recite lines and lines. But until we stop thrusting the Duffy's and Motions of this world into the vapid eyes of the uninitiated, what poetry will be is a very dreary PR exercise in keeping shit alive.