Freedom of expression in Poetry.

[Carousal]

You believe fiction writers and television/movie writers can do this but all those poor inept poets are dependent on personal exposition?

You are sadly confused about the place of poetry in writing.

And you’re content to remain in your little ivory tower writing stuff that 95% (I’m being generous) don’t give a toss about.

I will never prostitute my muse for mere public recognition. God, how many times have I heard that? Offer them the next Potter script to write and they would tear your arm off.

You believe that j. K. Rowling is actually a wizard??!!)

No I believe she is a millionairess

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Are you suggesting that the general public is not capable of intelligence? Or perhaps that poets are not capable of analysis other than on a purely emotional basis?

No the opposite in fact, while neither I or anyone else has the facility of judging the IQ of the general public, most are perfectly capable of reading poetry providing they enjoy the experience.
So it follows that the public find little to enjoy from reading contemporary poetry. Certainly not my opinion alone, from time to time there are articles in the national newspapers and the mass media on the same subject. Google Poetry is Dead and you’ll find them.

It’s not about changing contemporary poetry it’s simply a matter of offering a choice instead of pushing all poetry into a box and discarding everything that doesn’t fit within the confines. Another curious thing is that if a writer follows a laid down list of rules (Poe’s rules have been mentioned on this thread) it somehow that will produce good poetry when we all know that a piece that ticks all the boxes can produce something that is as interesting to read as yesterdays shopping list. Why? Because the main ingredient is left out of the mix, creativity.

The point is that the public, when they read poetry don’t care much about the rules or the lack of them. Millions listen to classical music and attend classical concerts without any knowledge of how to read music.

When ever this subject comes up you always have some writers refusing to what they see is dummying down their work for the public domain. Fine with me but they are usually among the first ones to condemn what they see as easy to read poetry by other writers.

Does Andre Rieu dumb down classical music? Of course he does but others will argue he does so to make it assessable to those who would never listen to it in the way it is normally presented. That’s no excuse to the academics that go ape at the mention of his very name; you would think the guy was a mass child murderer to hear some of the abuse..

Sure when our Andre announces that the next piece is the Concerto de Aranjuez by Joaquín Rodrigo. What you will hear is the theme from bits of the Adagio repeated 5 times complete with a heavenly choir of ladies in ball gowns and it’s also unlikely you will hear a guitar at all. So what, at least a few thousand are enjoying an experience some would never have had.
You will never hear Andre perform Karlheinz Stockhausen’s "Gesang der Junglinge" because it would be stupid to do so. Half the audience would probably walk out.
And you would get a similar reaction if you introduced non poetry readers to The Emperor of Ice-Cream by Wallace Stevens. But maybe a poem such as this may get their attention.



Death in Leamington.

She died in the upstairs bedroom
By the light of the ev'ning star
That shone through the plate glass window
From over Leamington Spa

Beside her the lonely crochet
Lay patiently and unstirred,
But the fingers that would have work'd it
Were dead as the spoken word.

And Nurse came in with the tea-things
Breast high 'mid the stands and chairs-
But Nurse was alone with her own little soul,
And the things were alone with theirs.

She bolted the big round window,
She let the blinds unroll,
She set a match to the mantle,
She covered the fire with coal.

And "Tea!" she said in a tiny voice
"Wake up! It's nearly five"
Oh! Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness,
Half dead and half alive.

Do you know that the stucco is peeling?
Do you know that the heart will stop?
From those yellow Italianate arches
Do you hear the plaster drop?

Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,
At the grey, decaying face,
As the calm of a Leamington ev'ning
Drifted into the place.

She moved the table of bottles
Away from the bed to the wall;
And tiptoeing gently over the stairs
Turned down the gas in the hall.


Noooo not mine, Sir John Betjeman Poet Laureate