THE TWO WORLDS OF POETRY

by

Russell E. Spooner

A year ago, in the Summer, 1997 issue of TCPJ, we were privileged to have Russell E. Spooner's article, "They Say It's Never Too Late," published in this feature. It was more than well received, as many readers identified with Russ's words and thoughts. Re-cently, Russell sent in the article that follows, asking if we would be interested in running it in "A Personal Look." It only took a quick read-through to know that this was also a column readers would appreciate!

If you read widely enough, the conclusion is inescapable. There are two worlds of poetry out there. One is the small-press world, where standards and content vary from one publication to another. You are currently holding in your hand one of the finest examples. Anyone who wishes to be published need only look long enough, write well enough, submit enough, and he/she will find an appropriate niche for his/her work. We're generally a friendly lot, and help is rarely more than a question away.

The other world of poetry is a confusing place for many of us. It's where we find elegantly-produced hard cover books of less than a hundred pages which retail for $20.00 or more. Press runs are small, so they must often represent a financial loss to the publishers.

This is the poetry of The New Yorker and similar periodicals. It's poetry that can bring the authors huge awards, up to the annual $100,000.00 Tanning Prize. And it's poetry that frequently makes no sense at all. It appears that it's left up to the reader to supply meaning.

I think it was Louis Untermeyer who once said, "First make sense, then make poetry." That's good advice, no matter who said it, and something most of us try to follow in this poetry world. Not too long ago, I was given something that was labeled "found" poetry. (Carl explained what this means in the Winter issue.) It must have taken hours of cutting, pasting, and copying to put it together, for it rambled on some thirteen pages until it sort of ran out of steam and died. The author remarked that he had "no idea what it means, but the words just seemed to go together." That author was a Ph.D., a professor of English literature in a respected university. He taught poetry.

That and many other examples have led me to believe that a major difference between the two worlds of poetry is that one is based on academia. Authors, editors, publishers, and judges almost universally hold advanced degrees. These purportedly qualify them to write to, or judge by, today's accepted poetic standards.

Maybe that's true. Maybe I, and thousands of others, are way off base when we admit a preference for verse that is understandable, that we can sit down and read with enjoyment but without the need to tax our own imaginations to extremes for some elusive meaning. Maybe, without the benefit of an advanced degree in literature, we're simply too uneducated in the finer points of poetry appreciation. I sincerely doubt that, although I've always been a believer in as much education as a person can possibly acquire.

The demarcation line between the two worlds appears to be inviolate, although a few publications do attempt to breach the barriers. Generally, unless you belong to the right group, and write in the manner taught in the institutes of higher learning during the past two or three decades, there's little chance of ever receiving one of those big-money awards. There's no chance of a Pulitzer prize.

That shouldn't bother us. Small-press poets, for the most part, realize that those awards are not the reason we write. The less tangible benefits of poetry can be of much more lasting value. Enduring friendships and our work in print, even if not widely distributed, affords satisfactions beyond monetary value. Of course, if Ed McMahon should drop in some evening with a check, who of us would refuse it?

The mystery of poetry is sometimes sited as an excuse for what I, and many others, consider sloppy writing. That is not to say that poetry should lack mystery. Certain kinds have it in spades, and it adds greatly to the effectiveness of those pieces. But there's a difference between mystery and obscurity, between hints at a deeper meaning and meanings too vague for explanation, even by the author.

The latest buzz word for clarity and understanding in poetry appears to be "accessible." Make your work accessible, more and more editors are asking. Maybe this is the beginning of a long needed trend. Maybe it's time to question some of the self-styled "experts", who seem to think every poem needs a panel of interpreters if it's to be deemed acceptable.

Not long ago one such expert, who writes a poetry column for a well-known magazine, remarked that there was no excuse for anyone to write a sonnet in these times. Sonnets he claimed, belonged in the past and cannot possibly be relevant… probably should not even be read. Fortunately, this was one man's opinion, and not (in my view) a very good one. I stand in awe of Rita Dove, twice our Poet Laureate, for she not only wrote (and writes) exquisite poetry, but had the courage to produce a book of sonnets.

One thing, perhaps, stands out above all others as a contributing factor in setting our two worlds apart. It's disagreeable and it's difficult to understand. It's the attitude of the editorial board of many college publications. Technically, most of them are part of the small press, but they will not, under any circumstances, acknowledge that. Their poets are encouraged to believe that publication in their periodicals affords a mark of distinction beyond that which any "common" small-press poet will ever be able achieve. "Prestige" is everything, and impossible to attain outside the hallowed walls of that particular institution, or others nearly identical in purpose and attitude.

This is the sort of class consciousness that should have been left behind when we abandoned the privileges of European royalty. It's apparent that in the hearts of many American writers (poets more than others?) lurks a desire to re-establish ancient class systems, with themselves naturally in the upper echelons. Yet, there's hope even here. More and more collegiate journals are accepting submissions from outsiders. They're not just accepting, but actually printing a few. The barriers weaken.

To some extent, it's possible to sympathize with the editors of those magazines, especially when the editor is a professional hired by a university to do that job. Even the haziest notion of what an editor does must bring us to the realization that he/she receives an enormous amount of worthless trash. Perhaps in the atmosphere of advance education, this happens less frequently. Teachers, hopefully, forestall much of it. Open to the public, and there's bound to be an influx of drivel, along with the true gems. And those can be as good, or better, than anything produced in a classroom.

This last is what I think the universities and colleges must learn. They do not have a monopoly on poetic ability, and never will have. Such a thing as natural talent exists. On the other side of the coin is the indisputable fact that too many attempt to write poetry without any preparation whatever. There's a learning process to go through, whether it's a school, at home, or in the restroom at work. (Who among us has never done serious reading there?)

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