I've been slowly but steadily coming to the conclusion that poetry as an art form is quickly losing its flavor amongst the iPod generation. And I'm not talking about contemporary poets who don't get read oleh the masses, because as Gertrude Stein would say, "Those who are creating the modern composition authentically are naturally only of importance when they are dead because oleh that time the modern composition having become past is classified and the keterangan of it is classical. That is the reason why the creator of the new composition in the arts is an outlaw until he is a classic." Or, in other words, a poet only matters after his work has been deemed a classic. This has occurred plenty of times in history. The only real audience for contemporary poets is other poets.
No, I am not worried about the contemporary poets so much as I am worried about the classics.
As a lover of poetry myself, I signed up for a Modern poetry class because I thought it would be fun to read some of the classic modernists and discuss them with a group of fellow poetry enthusiasts. Now, as a young American with friends of varying interest, I could already tell that the majority of young America couldn't give a flying monkey about poetry. Most of these folks also couldn't care less for literature in general. English majors and avid readers tend to be different. English majors and avid readers are supposed to enjoy literature in general. English majors and avid readers are, mostly, supposed to read at least some poetry.
I learned from a brief chat with my professor that "Modern Poetry" is rarely offered, because little interest is shown in it. And, granted, this was a summer course, but summers at the universitas of Washington tend to be quite busy with a bunch of bustling students trying to pack in a few extra credits to graduate early, atau to catch up with their graduating class. Including myself, there were three official students of Modern Poetry, and one auditor, who was a very interesting retiree and poetry-lover.
Speaking to the other two students my age, I quickly learned two things about English majors at the universitas of Washington: A) That even if they liked literature, most of the time they did not like and, to some extent, even loathed poetry. And B) That an English major is not required to take any classes in poetry at all, and can easily obtain a degree without ever having to look at a single poem.
Now, some may recall that even I expressed frustration with the poetry we read in the the chat, atau complained about all the essays I was menulis for the class, but in truth I actually rather quite enjoyed it, for all my complaining. But I quickly learned a new thing, about my generation in general (not just English majors). And that is that even a well-read person who knows exactly who you're talking about when anda mention Hemingway, has no idea who anda mean when anda casually mention Stein in the same sentence, even though Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein were not only contemporaries, but good friends.
To my everyday group of high school graduate friends, I throw out names like "Harper Lee," "J.D. Salinger," "F. Scott Fitzgerald," and even occasionally "Albert Camus," "Joseph Conrad," atau "Chinua Achebe," they know who I'm talking about because the novels of these authors were required membaca in their high school.
If, to the same group of high school graduate friends, I toss out names like "William Carlos Williams," "Wallace Stevens," "Elizabeth Bishop," atau even "T. S. Eliot," "Ezra Pound," atau "W. B. Yeats," they tend to stare at me blankly.
Why is this, I ask? Why is it that the great novelists of the nineteenth and twentieth century are recognized oleh my generation, but not the poets? Why do we feel this vague sense of, "Oh, I should know who he is... Wasn't he black?" when we hear the name "Langston Hughes"? Or, "Dang, 'Gertrude Stein,' she sounds super familiar... Wasn't she a lesbian?"
A cepat, swift cari of fanpop for the major contributors to the modernist canon revealed that the only mentions of any of these names (Williams, Stevens, Bishop, Eliot, Pound, Yeats, Hughes, and Stein) reveal nothing, atau if something, an artikel in which I alluded and/or quoted one of them.
I published an artikel centering around Hughes' poem the other hari in hopes to stir up a little discussion on the poem. The poem itself was rather incendiary at the time, and some may consider it to be offensive still, which was exactly what I wanted to discuss. It received six ratings, which I was pleased with, and not a single comment.
So this is my pertanyaan that I am posing to you, writers and poets: Did anda recognize any of the names I dropped in this article? If anda did, can anda name one poem any of them wrote? Can anda name two? If anda can name three, I may have to get down on one knee and propose. Because even amongst English majors, I've found, poetry is not necessarily a welcome topic of conversation.
Now, why is this? Is poetry too dry for our short attention spans these days? It has been argued that artists such as John Lennon, Joni Mitchell and Don McLean were the real poets of their generation, and were paralleled with poets like Allan Ginsberg of the Beat Generation. So if this is the case, does that mean I'm wrong? What if poetry isn't dying? What if it's just slowly evolving into brand new forms, just like us? What if our poetry is our music? Song lyrics are lebih often quoted oleh teens than any classical lyric. Regardless of whether atau not a poem of the canon is timeless atau period-specific, it would seem that most of the iPod's generation's interest is in the world, and subsequently poetry of music. If these populer lyrics were written, atau read, and not sung, would they still be popular?
And if they remained popular, why song lyrics and not other poetry? What makes, for exampled, Jason Mraz's "If it's a broken part, replace it/If it's a broken arm then brace it/If it's a broken jantung then face it," any lebih interesting than Don McLean's, "The silver thorn on the bloody rose/Lay crushed and broken on the virgin snow" atau any lebih interesting than Wallace Stevens' "People are not going/To dream of baboons and periwinkles./Only, here and there, an old sailor,/Drunk and asleep in his boots,/Catches tigers/In red weather." (Quotes and artists/poets selected at my discretion. From "Details in the Fabric," "Vincent," and "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock" respectively).
Hm... It's all very tricky, isn't it? I asked my uncle this pertanyaan earlier, and he suggested that it was because musik was lebih readily accessible to folks nowadays because it's everywhere anda turn. Poetry, not so much.
So what do anda guys think? Are anda a fan of the classic poets? Are anda a fan of poets in general? Do anda prefer song lyrics, atau written poetry? atau do anda think they are apples and oranges? Is poetry dying, atau is it just changing to meet the needs of the rapidly shrinking attention span? If it is changing, is it a good thing? Will people still study the modernists (Eliot, Pound, Stein) in the future, atau will their work slowly fade into obscurity?
Talk to me! I would cinta to dialog about this.
No, I am not worried about the contemporary poets so much as I am worried about the classics.
As a lover of poetry myself, I signed up for a Modern poetry class because I thought it would be fun to read some of the classic modernists and discuss them with a group of fellow poetry enthusiasts. Now, as a young American with friends of varying interest, I could already tell that the majority of young America couldn't give a flying monkey about poetry. Most of these folks also couldn't care less for literature in general. English majors and avid readers tend to be different. English majors and avid readers are supposed to enjoy literature in general. English majors and avid readers are, mostly, supposed to read at least some poetry.
I learned from a brief chat with my professor that "Modern Poetry" is rarely offered, because little interest is shown in it. And, granted, this was a summer course, but summers at the universitas of Washington tend to be quite busy with a bunch of bustling students trying to pack in a few extra credits to graduate early, atau to catch up with their graduating class. Including myself, there were three official students of Modern Poetry, and one auditor, who was a very interesting retiree and poetry-lover.
Speaking to the other two students my age, I quickly learned two things about English majors at the universitas of Washington: A) That even if they liked literature, most of the time they did not like and, to some extent, even loathed poetry. And B) That an English major is not required to take any classes in poetry at all, and can easily obtain a degree without ever having to look at a single poem.
Now, some may recall that even I expressed frustration with the poetry we read in the the chat, atau complained about all the essays I was menulis for the class, but in truth I actually rather quite enjoyed it, for all my complaining. But I quickly learned a new thing, about my generation in general (not just English majors). And that is that even a well-read person who knows exactly who you're talking about when anda mention Hemingway, has no idea who anda mean when anda casually mention Stein in the same sentence, even though Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein were not only contemporaries, but good friends.
To my everyday group of high school graduate friends, I throw out names like "Harper Lee," "J.D. Salinger," "F. Scott Fitzgerald," and even occasionally "Albert Camus," "Joseph Conrad," atau "Chinua Achebe," they know who I'm talking about because the novels of these authors were required membaca in their high school.
If, to the same group of high school graduate friends, I toss out names like "William Carlos Williams," "Wallace Stevens," "Elizabeth Bishop," atau even "T. S. Eliot," "Ezra Pound," atau "W. B. Yeats," they tend to stare at me blankly.
Why is this, I ask? Why is it that the great novelists of the nineteenth and twentieth century are recognized oleh my generation, but not the poets? Why do we feel this vague sense of, "Oh, I should know who he is... Wasn't he black?" when we hear the name "Langston Hughes"? Or, "Dang, 'Gertrude Stein,' she sounds super familiar... Wasn't she a lesbian?"
A cepat, swift cari of fanpop for the major contributors to the modernist canon revealed that the only mentions of any of these names (Williams, Stevens, Bishop, Eliot, Pound, Yeats, Hughes, and Stein) reveal nothing, atau if something, an artikel in which I alluded and/or quoted one of them.
I published an artikel centering around Hughes' poem the other hari in hopes to stir up a little discussion on the poem. The poem itself was rather incendiary at the time, and some may consider it to be offensive still, which was exactly what I wanted to discuss. It received six ratings, which I was pleased with, and not a single comment.
So this is my pertanyaan that I am posing to you, writers and poets: Did anda recognize any of the names I dropped in this article? If anda did, can anda name one poem any of them wrote? Can anda name two? If anda can name three, I may have to get down on one knee and propose. Because even amongst English majors, I've found, poetry is not necessarily a welcome topic of conversation.
Now, why is this? Is poetry too dry for our short attention spans these days? It has been argued that artists such as John Lennon, Joni Mitchell and Don McLean were the real poets of their generation, and were paralleled with poets like Allan Ginsberg of the Beat Generation. So if this is the case, does that mean I'm wrong? What if poetry isn't dying? What if it's just slowly evolving into brand new forms, just like us? What if our poetry is our music? Song lyrics are lebih often quoted oleh teens than any classical lyric. Regardless of whether atau not a poem of the canon is timeless atau period-specific, it would seem that most of the iPod's generation's interest is in the world, and subsequently poetry of music. If these populer lyrics were written, atau read, and not sung, would they still be popular?
And if they remained popular, why song lyrics and not other poetry? What makes, for exampled, Jason Mraz's "If it's a broken part, replace it/If it's a broken arm then brace it/If it's a broken jantung then face it," any lebih interesting than Don McLean's, "The silver thorn on the bloody rose/Lay crushed and broken on the virgin snow" atau any lebih interesting than Wallace Stevens' "People are not going/To dream of baboons and periwinkles./Only, here and there, an old sailor,/Drunk and asleep in his boots,/Catches tigers/In red weather." (Quotes and artists/poets selected at my discretion. From "Details in the Fabric," "Vincent," and "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock" respectively).
Hm... It's all very tricky, isn't it? I asked my uncle this pertanyaan earlier, and he suggested that it was because musik was lebih readily accessible to folks nowadays because it's everywhere anda turn. Poetry, not so much.
So what do anda guys think? Are anda a fan of the classic poets? Are anda a fan of poets in general? Do anda prefer song lyrics, atau written poetry? atau do anda think they are apples and oranges? Is poetry dying, atau is it just changing to meet the needs of the rapidly shrinking attention span? If it is changing, is it a good thing? Will people still study the modernists (Eliot, Pound, Stein) in the future, atau will their work slowly fade into obscurity?
Talk to me! I would cinta to dialog about this.
Alone!
There once was a girl who biked and ran
with her best friend who had a bright jeruk, orange tan
But then one hari she when biking alone
and thats when she fell along way from home.
She lay still on the ground
not makeing a sound,and thats when she found
that she could not talk
let alone walk
As she slowly made her way home
she wished that she had a phone
so she could call for help
insted of put up with the pain that made her yelp.
She pushed her bike down the dusty track
with a sore haed and an acking back
Then she came to the place where her and her best friend met
just as the sun was begining to set
The selanjutnya hari at school she was no where in sight
which gave her best frined a very big fright
but she was a halaman awal tucked up in bed
with a sore leg and an acking head
Thats when she remebered what her best friend had berkata
about not going out bikeing alone
along way from home.
What do anda think?(I think it is very bad) and sorry of the spelling.
There once was a girl who biked and ran
with her best friend who had a bright jeruk, orange tan
But then one hari she when biking alone
and thats when she fell along way from home.
She lay still on the ground
not makeing a sound,and thats when she found
that she could not talk
let alone walk
As she slowly made her way home
she wished that she had a phone
so she could call for help
insted of put up with the pain that made her yelp.
She pushed her bike down the dusty track
with a sore haed and an acking back
Then she came to the place where her and her best friend met
just as the sun was begining to set
The selanjutnya hari at school she was no where in sight
which gave her best frined a very big fright
but she was a halaman awal tucked up in bed
with a sore leg and an acking head
Thats when she remebered what her best friend had berkata
about not going out bikeing alone
along way from home.
What do anda think?(I think it is very bad) and sorry of the spelling.
You
It's the middle of the night,
And I can't sleep
Your face, planted with a smile
Are the only things I see
Your voice calling my name
Is the only thing I hear
I can feel your hand rubbing my back
Hearing anda whisper ''good night''
I jump and look around,
And soon realize anda are not there
I sob, tightly holding the gift anda once gave me
It's right here, on my bed, in perfect condition.
30 menit later, I wipe my face and go back to sleep…
I wake up once again
And the cycle starts all over again…
It's the middle of the night,
And I can't sleep
Your face, planted with a smile
Are the only things I see
Your voice calling my name
Is the only thing I hear
I can feel your hand rubbing my back
Hearing anda whisper ''good night''
I jump and look around,
And soon realize anda are not there
I sob, tightly holding the gift anda once gave me
It's right here, on my bed, in perfect condition.
30 menit later, I wipe my face and go back to sleep…
I wake up once again
And the cycle starts all over again…
your mistakes don't define you, now. they don't tell anda who you're not, atau who anda can never be. what's it take to get anda to say you'll try? you've got to live this life like it's the only one you've got. what would anda say, what would anda do, if this was your last day? so, anda found out today that life's not the same. not quite as good as yesterday.
and, yes, i know it hurts & i know your pain, but u never gave up this easily befor. such a beautiful thing to just throw away. i think anda need to know that, of all the warna that anda shine, this is surely not your best, it's really not your style. anda should think about what anda do, befor anda do it, over and over again. i know anda feel alone, that know one can figure anda out, but anda sould know that we just cinta to see anda smile.i know anda feel like you're lost, feel like you've drifted way to far away, but we can help anda come back.
and, yes, i know it hurts & i know your pain, but u never gave up this easily befor. such a beautiful thing to just throw away. i think anda need to know that, of all the warna that anda shine, this is surely not your best, it's really not your style. anda should think about what anda do, befor anda do it, over and over again. i know anda feel alone, that know one can figure anda out, but anda sould know that we just cinta to see anda smile.i know anda feel like you're lost, feel like you've drifted way to far away, but we can help anda come back.
I wrote this yesterday when me and my boyfriend had a big fight and it's a fight that may go on for a long time. I know I am young to write something like this but, I guess it helps. Plus If anda don't like it just tell me, ok?
The Power of Words
anda and I had this big long fight,
It felt like the storm during the night.
It was verry sad and cold,
My friends had to like anda a lot
and anda felt like I forgot,
forgot about you.
But I had a prodject due.
anda think you're mr. I'm so cool
but anda used to act like a ghool.
Not to the people anda love,
to the sensetive people like a dove.
How we spoke with eachother,
made anda feel much better.
But the fight we had,
anda berkata was nothing but it was bad.
See ya pal we're ova,
take the cell anda gave me and do me a fava.
Just don't ever,
Never...
Talk to me again!
The Power of Words
anda and I had this big long fight,
It felt like the storm during the night.
It was verry sad and cold,
My friends had to like anda a lot
and anda felt like I forgot,
forgot about you.
But I had a prodject due.
anda think you're mr. I'm so cool
but anda used to act like a ghool.
Not to the people anda love,
to the sensetive people like a dove.
How we spoke with eachother,
made anda feel much better.
But the fight we had,
anda berkata was nothing but it was bad.
See ya pal we're ova,
take the cell anda gave me and do me a fava.
Just don't ever,
Never...
Talk to me again!
The Man With No Eyes Collection (1): The Actor
Sundown, sunrise.
Big smile!
(Tired eyes.)
I vanish into thin air.
An actor never fails.
(Lies.)
To give the world a rousing show
(While begging to be recognized.)
To shine as brightly as the sun
Upon the takhta that we’ve devised.
A patchwork-quilt protagonist
A villain from the shadow realm
The work of the illusionist
When I, the actor, take the helm.
“Hey, wouldn’t it be cool to see…”
The whisper marks my story’s birth.
The audience will gather ‘round.
(The jury to decide my worth.)
"The Man With No Eyes" is a series of poems, all of which are unfolding from one character's point of view. They are meant to represent an ongoing journey. So if anda liked this one, stay tuned for more. :)
Sundown, sunrise.
Big smile!
(Tired eyes.)
I vanish into thin air.
An actor never fails.
(Lies.)
To give the world a rousing show
(While begging to be recognized.)
To shine as brightly as the sun
Upon the takhta that we’ve devised.
A patchwork-quilt protagonist
A villain from the shadow realm
The work of the illusionist
When I, the actor, take the helm.
“Hey, wouldn’t it be cool to see…”
The whisper marks my story’s birth.
The audience will gather ‘round.
(The jury to decide my worth.)
"The Man With No Eyes" is a series of poems, all of which are unfolding from one character's point of view. They are meant to represent an ongoing journey. So if anda liked this one, stay tuned for more. :)