Poetry is Dead

[kolemath]

Let the church bells ring
in eulogy
for poetry has lost its head. 

I'm sorry to be the cornier of the lost art, 
but friends we must admit
poetry is dead.

We the pion readers
read for each other, write for each other,
and watch our noise ignored
as we ignore each other
while verse whispers its final breaths,
crushed by the weight of WiFi, radio, and other signals alien.

Alice Walker was new black feminism,
Rich a vocal queer,
Hughes a man of Renaissance,
Ginsberg drumming beats,
popped ideas too big,
rubber shards scattering.

But poetry's not dead, you say.
Just check out all the zines!
We have horror poems, erotic, humor, haiku, pick words, daily posts, kitsch, serious form, and free!
More poets than we've ever seen!
How can poetry be dead with so many on the scene?

And all the critics with the crickets playing cricket violins?

At the presidential inauguration,
poet Elizabeth Alexander read a poem.
Did you see it?
Of course you didn't.
Poetry is dead. 

But we have laureates, you say,
so poetry ain't dead!
Unless you write poems, you haven't heard of them,
and even if you find some joy in working verses' shapes,
can you name the laureate of your state?
Of course you can't.  Poetry is dead. 

And what the hell is a sonnet anyways?
A villanelle?
Who gives a hell!
Your haikus are too highfalutin.
Bill might have gotten a few more shakes on his spear
instead of jambing on in iamb. 

Why bother bending brains for verse?
No one really cares!
We'd better spend our time and data
filming on our phones
to make a documentary called life
inside my phone!
Surely viral it will flow
on endless streams of endless shows
the never-ending binge and glow,
blue light angles
holding three TV remotes. 

Look at poetry in the corner!
What corner casts a shadow?
Poetry is surrounded by the firing squad.
Fire.
Poetry is dead. 

But could poetry be dead
with all this verse on the page
and you with me reading
like CPR on a dying old woman?
No.
You can't bring her back from the dead
with all your pounding on the page
and refusing to stop this verse 
adding to the body of this stanza
like bloodless veins in an arm.

Today,
the voices that call bullshit
don't waste a day in verse and meter.
They login to twitter
and sound off a post,
which goes viral,
which becomes hashtag,
which becomes movement,
which is poetry,
in the way of Walker, Rich, Hughes, and Ginsberg.

Yes, poetry is dead, 
but do you know her children?

[Todd]

Hi Kole, 

I've got to get out my cricket violin to give you some comments. I thoroughly enjoyed this. It not only made me laugh a few times but it got me to look up the poet laureate of Texas. Imagine my surprise when she wasn't sponsored by a national beef council. So laughter and a call to action--not a bad result more than most poems have had I'm thinking.

Let the church bells ring. 
in eulogy
for poetry has lost its head. 

I'm sorry to be the cornier of the lost art, 
but friends we must admit
poetry is dead.

We the pion readers
read for each other, write for each other,
and watch our noise ignored--an interesting indictment on the incestuous nature of the "poetry community"
as we ignore each other--great observation
while verse whispers its final breaths,
crushed by the weight of WiFi, radio, and other signals alien.--radio seems a bit archaic but I like your other signals alien.

Alice Walker was new black feminism,--Key word here is was
Rich a vocal queer,
Hughes a man of Renaissance,
Ginsberg drumming beats,
popped ideas too big,
rubber shards scattering.

But poetry's not dead, you say.
Just check out all the zines!
We have horror poems, erotic, humor, haiku, pick words, daily posts, kitsch, serious form, and free!
More poets than we've ever seen!
How can poetry be dead with so many on the scene?

And all the critics with the crickets playing cricket violins?--wonderful stand alone line

At the presidential inauguration,
poet Elizabeth Alexander read a poem.
Did you see it?
Of course you didn't.--The conversational voice with the expected back and forth is the best part of this poem. This part was very funny.
Poetry is dead. 

But we have laureates, you say,
so poetry ain't dead!
Unless you write poems, you haven't heard of them,
and even if you find some joy in working verses' shapes,
can you name the laureate of your state?--Now I can.
Of course you can't.  Poetry is dead. 

And what the hell is a sonnet anyways?
A villanelle?
Who gives a hell!
Your haikus are too highfalutin.
Bill might have gotten a few more shakes on his spear
instead of jambing on in iamb.

Why bother bending brains for verse?
No one really cares!
We'd better spend our time and data
filming on our phones
to make a documentary called life
inside my phone!--the absurdity
Surely viral it will flow--I like the yoda syntax here
on endless streams of endless shows
the never-ending binge and glow,
blue light angles
holding three TV remotes. 

Look at poetry in the corner!
What corner casts a shadow?
Poetry is surrounded by the firing squad.
Fire.
Poetry is dead. 

But could poetry be dead
with all this verse on the page
and you with me reading
like CPR on a dying old woman?
No.
You can't bring her back from the dead
with all your pounding on the page
and refusing to stop this verse 
adding to the body of this stanza
like bloodless veins in an arm.

Today,
the voices that call bullshit
don't waste a day in verse and meter.
They login to twitter
and sound off a post,
which goes viral,
which becomes hashtag,
which becomes movement,
which is poetry,
in the way of Walker, Rich, Hughes, and Ginsberg.

Yes, poetry is dead, 
but do you know her children?--A little fast to get to that conclusion I don't know if you quite earned it.

Loved the piece.

Best,

Todd

[Lizzie]

Welcome back Kole. Love the piece. A few notes.

Let the church bells ring
in eulogy
for poetry has lost its head. 

I'm sorry to be the cornier of the lost art, -- coroner, surely?
but friends we must admit
poetry is dead.

We the pion readers
read for each other, write for each other, -- what's so bad about that?
and watch our noise ignored
as we ignore each other -- burn
while verse whispers its final breaths,
crushed by the weight of WiFi, radio, and other signals alien.

Alice Walker was new black feminism,
Rich a vocal queer,
Hughes a man of Renaissance,
Ginsberg drumming beats,
popped ideas too big,
rubber shards scattering.

But poetry's not dead, you say.
Just check out all the zines!
We have horror poems, erotic, humor, haiku, pick words, daily posts, kitsch, serious form, and free! -- I'd like to see some internal rhyme/assonance in here so that it's more lyrical and not just a collection of words.
More poets than we've ever seen!
How can poetry be dead with so many on the scene?

And all the critics with the crickets playing cricket violins? -- I wonder if they play cricket too?

At the presidential inauguration, -- people would be tuning in to see the inauguration, so why wouldn't they have seen the poem begin read? Was that bit not televised? Surely people wouldn't be tuning in just to see the poem, but many would have seen it, I wager.
poet Elizabeth Alexander read a poem. -- I'd drop 'poet' from before Elizabeth Alexander.
Did you see it?
Of course you didn't.
Poetry is dead. -- I'd actually cut down on the number of times you say that poetry is dead, because it starts to become too repetitive and predictable. We all get the message from the title.

But we have laureates, you say,
so poetry ain't dead! -- when you're putting words in the mouth of the established poetry community, I wouldn't have them saying words like 'ain't.' I think you're going for a stuffy vs. relevant vibe.
Unless you write poems, you haven't heard of them,
and even if you find some joy in working verses' shapes, -- too wordy
can you name the laureate of your state? -- burn
Of course you can't.  Poetry is dead. 

And what the hell is a sonnet anyways?
A villanelle?
Who gives a hell!
Your haikus are too highfalutin.
Bill might have gotten a few more shakes on his spear
instead of jambing on in iamb. 

Why bother bending brains for verse?
No one really cares!
We'd better spend our time and data
filming on our phones
to make a documentary called life
inside my phone!
Surely viral it will flow -- like the slightly arcane feel
on endless streams of endless shows
the never-ending binge and glow, -- yes, the Netflix binge
blue light angles
holding three TV remotes. 

Look at poetry in the corner! -- nobody puts Baby in a corner
What corner casts a shadow?
Poetry is surrounded by the firing squad.
Fire.
Poetry is dead. 

But could poetry be dead
with all this verse on the page
and you with me reading
like CPR on a dying old woman?
No.
You can't bring her back from the dead
with all your pounding on the page
and refusing to stop this verse 
adding to the body of this stanza
like bloodless veins in an arm. -- this isn't my favorite stanza. I don't think it adds much that hasn't already been said and I don't feel like the imagery is fresh.

Today,
the voices that call bullshit
don't waste a day in verse and meter.
They login to twitter -- like meter/twitter
and sound off a post,
which goes viral,
which becomes hashtag,
which becomes movement, -- good
which is poetry,
in the way of Walker, Rich, Hughes, and Ginsberg. -- maybe we should start tweeting our poems?

Yes, poetry is dead, 
but do you know her children? -- I like the ending, although I think it is a little abrupt.

Needs some fine tuning, but lots of great stuff to work with.

Tod Marshall

[kolemath]

nice to have you both our for a crit! i gotta get back into the swing of things

ha! cornier..thanks lizz

[Brownlie]

Well, you've paid the troll toll if you've suffered through my comments. That being said, the title uses the verb is. Is sucks as a verb. Why not just say dead poetry? or Stiff poetry? Also, there may be more poets now than ever before. How many MFA programs and such are there? There are so many poets that people just teach it or compare it to computer software. People freaking love poems. 

Let the church bells ring
in eulogy
for poetry has lost its head. --Don't need has.  

I'm sorry to be the cornier of the lost art, 
but friends we must admit
poetry is dead.

We the pion readers
read for each other, write for each other,
and watch our noise ignored
as we ignore each other
while verse whispers its final breaths,
crushed by the weight of WiFi, radio, and other signals alien. -- The argument is that the Internet impedes poetry? On a poetry forum!

Alice Walker was new black feminism,
Rich a vocal queer,
Hughes a man of Renaissance,
Ginsberg drumming beats,
popped ideas too big,
rubber shards scattering. -- This is pretty cool. Generally think the advanced categorization of movements is a bit like trying to find profundity in simple concepts. However, this is like beat stuff or something, which is cool. 

But poetry's not dead, you say.
Just check out all the zines!
We have horror poems, erotic, humor, haiku, pick words, daily posts, kitsch, serious form, and free!
More poets than we've ever seen!
How can poetry be dead with so many on the scene? -- You answered my question!

And all the critics with the crickets playing cricket violins?

At the presidential inauguration,
poet Elizabeth Alexander read a poem.
Did you see it?
Of course you didn't.
Poetry is dead. 

But we have laureates, you say,
so poetry ain't dead!
Unless you write poems, you haven't heard of them,
and even if you find some joy in working verses' shapes,
can you name the laureate of your state?
Of course you can't.  Poetry is dead. -- How do plaudits issued by people entitled to issue plaudits ensure the vitality of poems? This is like saying, "the cinema is dead. No one watched the Oscars, and now we need to advertise a new way. " 

And what the hell is a sonnet anyways? -- Don't need to know sonnets to like poems? 
villanelle?
Who gives a hell!
Your haikus are too highfalutin. -- Haikus aren't highfalutin. Strict adherence to villanelles without justification as a cool poem might be highfalutin. Honestly, sestinas about Popeye? Give me a break. Those are kind of strange. If you bring high and low together but still say it must be high in some way, it seems like bull. 
Bill might have gotten a few more shakes on his spear
instead of jambing on in iamb. --- Bill is a G. His words are mellifluous and thought provoking. End of story. 

Why bother bending brains for verse?
No one really cares!  - Not true at all. Some people dedicate their lives to it. 
We'd better spend our time and data
filming on our phones
to make a documentary called life
inside my phone!  -- Data should be synchronized for healthcare and whatnot. 
Surely viral it will flow
on endless streams of endless shows
the never-ending binge and glow,
blue light angles
holding three TV remotes. -- We all die in about 75 years anyway. Let them enjoy it. Some people like poems. 

Look at poetry in the corner!
What corner casts a shadow?
Poetry is surrounded by the firing squad.
Fire.
Poetry is dead. 

But could poetry be dead
with all this verse on the page
and you with me reading
like CPR on a dying old woman?
No.
You can't bring her back from the dead 
with all your pounding on the page
and refusing to stop this verse 
adding to the body of this stanza
like bloodless veins in an arm.

Today,
the voices that call bullshit
don't waste a day in verse and meter. -- Meter and verse is alive and well. Every freaking pop song rhymes and is probably somewhat regular. However, the content seems dull.   
They login to twitter
and sound off a post,
which goes viral, -- Most posts just sit in cyberspace without any views. 
which becomes hashtag,
which becomes movement,
which is poetry,
in the way of Walker, Rich, Hughes, and Ginsberg.

Yes, poetry is dead, 
but do you know her children?

This was a lot of fun to read. I think people would have something to say after reading.