If you refer back to the first post you’ll see I was a bit wounded. Sick’ish wounded.
Midwest bound, photo finish flu bug down and out finish. I stuck two poets and their work which I admire greatly as the buffer between then and now … the revelations are at hand (if you go back to the previous post you might find some young students tangling with Mr. Kadela and Jack McCarthy).
Newsweek via the National Endowment of the Arts reported that poetry is on the decline. I’m not sure what that means: on the decline. And I don’t necessarily want to go after that line; I don’t want to yell about book sales, monopoly book chains, an inaccurate reading of Plato booting the poets out of the Republic, or all of the rest (the ‘e’ world is so very foreign to me, I still kill chickens to turn my computer on [this post cost four feathered friends] so I couldn’t possibly touch the issue of what the world wide web has done or not done for poetry). The only semi controversial note I’d like to add to the whole discussion is that my teacher blood starts to heat up a bit, my spidy sense seems to waver high, and my vamp toothies seem to lower in recognition of an old truth: If there is a problem and you keep teaching with the same people in the same way with the same assessments than there can be no change. Tis not the fault of those who are being tested it is the others, the us. I like Dana Gioia, former chairman of the NEA, I like Stephen Young of the Poetry Foundation, I love to read and have marvelous interactions with titled poets, but if different results are desired, maybe it is time to try different people and different methods. They are out there, they aren’t hiding. And they are rather good at what they do … the breathing and living of poetics.
Far be it for me to dispute Newsweek, but I can’t escape poetry. I have a very limited ability to communicate with others. The spaces in between is closer to my mark. I was watching the documentary ‘GreyGardens’ about Jackie O’s aunt and cousin (Little Edie). Mother starts a scene with a discussion about the color of the ocean, something she has stared at for 50 years, “I’ve never seen it that color before.” It reminded me of Jodie Foster in ‘Contact’ when she transports to another planet and responds back to Earth, “They should have sent a poet, I don’t have the words for the beauty” (faux pas quotation marks on that one … used for dramatic effect, less for utility [Jeremy Bentham be damned]). Not to be outdone by Mother, Jackie O cousin Little Edie starts a debate about freedom, her desire to have stayed in New York City v. the East Hamptons many, many moons ago:
“I want freedom,” said Edie.
“Well, you can’t get it, you’re being supported,” responds Mother.
“I think you aren’t free when you aren’t being supported,” said Edie.
“You’re in this world you know. You’re not out of this world,” Mother replies.
“There are certain compensations,” Edie replies back, “Mother dar-ling! Mother has certain ideas …”
“It’s very hard to live now-a-days, living is very hard,” ends Mother. I am immediately reminded of filmmaker Hal Hartley’s ‘Henry Fool’ when Simon is beat up early on, broken ribs, and he looks up to his new mentor and friend Henry, sitting atop the porcelain thrown, and meows, “It is hard to breathe,” to which poet Henry responds, “Of course it is,” and gets up and leaves. Poetic brilliance at every turn. But the Beale women of the ‘Grey Gardens’ will not be trumped: “Everything’s good that you didn’t do,” Mother responds sarcastically to Edie, “You didn’t feel then the way you do now.” Edie responds triumphantly, dear I say, poetically: “Two roads diverged in yellow wood/And pondering one/I took the other/And it made all the difference.” Close enough, on camera and all ... it was sunny and she was twirling about with all of those cats and coons about. But Mother gets the last word: “You’re not teaching us anything Edie; your poem is better than Frost.” And there YOU have it.
We all have a poem. We all have a poem better and worse than Frost. I overheard two students talking in the hall about a rock concert they jammed at, “There was a mosh pit/ and some girl showed her b**bs/and my amp exploded/ in full flames/during an encore/ solo,/ dude!” and they smiled poetically. I’m trying not to get overly caught up in the tragedy of David Foster Wallace; to live is to see such ends Aristotle would say. But in the New Yorker a quote of his made me sad, “This is a generation that has an inheritance of absolutely nothing as far as meaningful moral values, and it’s our job to make them up.” The closer we get to such statements the farther we are from one another. I don’t think it is the youth, I think it is the getting older and trying to deal with all of the decisions you’ve made, or, more importantly, not made. The youngsters are better than us in this regard and also cursed. Maybe. For me, the spaces in between have always been my safety net. As some have said, poetry is not a luxury, it is a survival skill. And while that does scream melodrama I can’t help but agree.
Poetry on the decline? I’m still fighting; trying to find the poems at every turn. I’d like to see something for 50 years and call it by a new name near the end.
Cut and paste the link, http://www.myspace.com/israelkamakawiwoole
listen to ‘Over the Rainbow’ in a way you’ve never listened before, read this good poem (going) and then go write your own: Think of two old ladies of fading aristocracy, new planets, amps afire, the gorgeous bandana and wordplay of David Foster Wallace, some breasts … think of poets Kadela and McCarthy. Give it a go. Newsweek can’t count your hand to pen to paper … we’ll fool ‘em all.
I’m dedicating the poem below, written by the lovely Tennessee Mary of Chicago fame, to the Beale ladies.
going
By Tennessee Mary Fons
nothing more to pack/no boot/no book/no pot/no pan left lying out/there are boxes strewn about/everywhere/and you are Columbus standing in the middle of this cardboard sea/it’s new worlds for you/it’s the Old World for me.
but before you go/my love/for I do believe I have earned that claim to you/I do believe I can run to you in the way that lovers do/I do believe I have the right to/and because of this I do believe that I may have a word or two:
thank you.
the nights that held our hands/the days that broke the eggs/the dirt in our eyes through the times that these times have been/when we say it was ‘the way we were’ there will be two voices that say it so/and that sound will blend and send itself to heaven where all our voices rest for good/but every time they sound again/for they do love to hear themselves/our time here will ring/ring roundly and with purpose for that was the way we lived/stepping firmly on the ground/hearts to hearts/speaking softly.
go be Columbus/and I’ll go be me/and if one day you find you are weary from the pavement/skyward turn an ear/and hear/if ever faintly/the memory of our days.
