01-18-2014, 04:18 AM
I've often thought about this - not just about poetry but about literature in general. It seems like with each successive generation, writing becomes less about skill and more about mass appeal - the way it makes people feel. Otherwise how could we explain the success of the Twilight series (which I've read and felt were pretty poorly written - although in all fairness to Meyers she did improve over the course of the trilogy)? Yet, Meyers has made a fortune from her mediocre writing and the novels of true worth sit on shelves collecting dust. It's frustrating - to say the least.
Some of this is due in part to technology: texting, hashtags, tweeting. Every book of note will eventually find its way to a film screen cast with marginally talented but good looking kids from some random CW show that I've never watched. I also think each generation gets progressively lazier and more stupid. Although I can't cite any resources, I'm sure that I've read that the average IQ is getting lower.
Poetry has always been one of those elite art forms that have been difficult for someone of average intellect to really understand. How can poetry evoke an emotional response if the reader can't obtain some meaning from it? But I don't necessarily feel like it's the poet's responsibility to reduce their art for the sake of being "popular". And honestly what self-respecting writer would want to do that?
I once read a letter from Billie Joe Armstrong, of Green Day fame, in response to a lady who wrote specifically to tell him that his music was offensive and not "art" and he said something to the effect that he doesn't write songs for her, he writes them for himself. Though art is often shared, I feel like the creation of art is mostly selfish. Artists generally create for their own personal expression (an outlet) and those who don't should maybe consider reclassifying themselves as capitalists. When art is created, it's out of some personal compulsion. If it sells after the fact, then kudos, but sales or popularity shouldn't be a motivating factor in its creation. If it is, it's not art, it's work. It just sucks that the writers who have managed to be the most financially successful using their talent aren't necessarily the best at their craft.
Don't get me wrong, although I believe the creation of art is selfish, I believe being exposed to other's creations can be satisfying beyond belief. I can't even begin to imagine a life without the books I've read, the poems I've studied, the films I've watched, the music I've danced to, the paintings I've ogled (one of the greatest moments of my life was standing for 20 minutes in front of the Mona Lisa - not necessarily because it's my favorite painting but because it was the f'n MONA LISA for Chrissakes!). Although it's not by any means the best painting ever something about "Christina's World" has always stuck with me. I could stare at that painting for hours and still not truly understand why it provokes such emotion for me, but it does and I love it for that.
Art enriches life and I'm so glad that it exists. And I further agree that the art that sticks with you, really touches your soul does so not necessarily because it was perfect, but because something in it touched something in you, BUT to know and understand how much investment was made to create that moment for you takes appreciation of art to another level. It's no longer just about "liking" it, but "respecting" it. I like a lot of songs, a lot of books, but do I respect the creator? (Not always.) For that respect to exist, I have to fundamentally understand that while the talent was there to create, it was boosted by hard work and investment.
That appreciation for hard work and investment doesn't exist in today's society. It's all about immediate gratification. Everything is starting to feel temporary and transitory. People are quick to dismiss things that they don't understand as not having relevance because they don't feel like it's worth the time and investment to attempt to understand. And that is a travesty.
It's easy for people to have contempt towards something (anything) that is beyond them. It's why bullying is so prevalent these days. In most instances this contempt exists simply because the individual holding the contempt is bitter because they subconciously understand that the object of their contempt is better or smarter than they are. So of course to make themselves feel more adequate, they have to try and bring it/him/her down to their level.
And I'll wrap up this soapbox sermon with a poem that makes me want to cry every time I read it:
Courage
Anne Sexton
It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off our heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you’ll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you’ll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
Some of this is due in part to technology: texting, hashtags, tweeting. Every book of note will eventually find its way to a film screen cast with marginally talented but good looking kids from some random CW show that I've never watched. I also think each generation gets progressively lazier and more stupid. Although I can't cite any resources, I'm sure that I've read that the average IQ is getting lower.
Poetry has always been one of those elite art forms that have been difficult for someone of average intellect to really understand. How can poetry evoke an emotional response if the reader can't obtain some meaning from it? But I don't necessarily feel like it's the poet's responsibility to reduce their art for the sake of being "popular". And honestly what self-respecting writer would want to do that?
I once read a letter from Billie Joe Armstrong, of Green Day fame, in response to a lady who wrote specifically to tell him that his music was offensive and not "art" and he said something to the effect that he doesn't write songs for her, he writes them for himself. Though art is often shared, I feel like the creation of art is mostly selfish. Artists generally create for their own personal expression (an outlet) and those who don't should maybe consider reclassifying themselves as capitalists. When art is created, it's out of some personal compulsion. If it sells after the fact, then kudos, but sales or popularity shouldn't be a motivating factor in its creation. If it is, it's not art, it's work. It just sucks that the writers who have managed to be the most financially successful using their talent aren't necessarily the best at their craft.
Don't get me wrong, although I believe the creation of art is selfish, I believe being exposed to other's creations can be satisfying beyond belief. I can't even begin to imagine a life without the books I've read, the poems I've studied, the films I've watched, the music I've danced to, the paintings I've ogled (one of the greatest moments of my life was standing for 20 minutes in front of the Mona Lisa - not necessarily because it's my favorite painting but because it was the f'n MONA LISA for Chrissakes!). Although it's not by any means the best painting ever something about "Christina's World" has always stuck with me. I could stare at that painting for hours and still not truly understand why it provokes such emotion for me, but it does and I love it for that.
Art enriches life and I'm so glad that it exists. And I further agree that the art that sticks with you, really touches your soul does so not necessarily because it was perfect, but because something in it touched something in you, BUT to know and understand how much investment was made to create that moment for you takes appreciation of art to another level. It's no longer just about "liking" it, but "respecting" it. I like a lot of songs, a lot of books, but do I respect the creator? (Not always.) For that respect to exist, I have to fundamentally understand that while the talent was there to create, it was boosted by hard work and investment.
That appreciation for hard work and investment doesn't exist in today's society. It's all about immediate gratification. Everything is starting to feel temporary and transitory. People are quick to dismiss things that they don't understand as not having relevance because they don't feel like it's worth the time and investment to attempt to understand. And that is a travesty.
It's easy for people to have contempt towards something (anything) that is beyond them. It's why bullying is so prevalent these days. In most instances this contempt exists simply because the individual holding the contempt is bitter because they subconciously understand that the object of their contempt is better or smarter than they are. So of course to make themselves feel more adequate, they have to try and bring it/him/her down to their level.
And I'll wrap up this soapbox sermon with a poem that makes me want to cry every time I read it:
Courage
Anne Sexton
It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off our heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you’ll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you’ll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.