tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3738347264016239879.post3653125577364616354..comments2023-09-18T04:18:15.914-05:00Comments on Mr. Micawber Enters The Internets: What is Wrong With Poetry?(#5) I attempt to tackle it.micawber'shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16978812467040376059noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3738347264016239879.post-40551661074628116642014-02-06T13:47:05.286-06:002014-02-06T13:47:05.286-06:00It's a good question. In my opinion, the shor...It's a good question. In my opinion, the short answer is: poetry. Popular poetry used to be accessible, readable, rhythmnic, and memorizable. For various (upsetting) reasons, free-form blob became preferable and academically more valid than rhyming couplets with topics comprehensible to the average eighth grader. Recorded music changed it, as photography changed art. (Why read rhymes when you can sing rhyming things?) I love poetry, but not much past the 1930's. You don't get rhymes that stick in your head like pop songs anymore. ("The gobble'uns'll get you if you don't watch out." "'I am half-sick of shadows,' said the Lady of Shallot.") A lot of modern poetry encourages one in navel-gazing ("It contains/ lint/ i was attached/ to my mother's womb/ with it.") Check out Doing Our Own Thing by John McWhorter for upsetting thoughts on the topic.Glyptodonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14984647307458257837noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3738347264016239879.post-44702340513916611682014-02-06T13:37:33.693-06:002014-02-06T13:37:33.693-06:00This comment has been removed by the author.Glyptodonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14984647307458257837noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3738347264016239879.post-18722754890133717982013-10-18T18:16:00.787-05:002013-10-18T18:16:00.787-05:00So, Naomi Shihab Nye, one of my favorite poets, ta...So, Naomi Shihab Nye, one of my favorite poets, talks about poetry and life in her very well-known poem, "Valentine for Ernest Mann." It says so well what I try to do, and it's one of my favorite poems, too. Thanks for a good week thinking about poetry. <br /><br />You can't order a poem like you order a taco.<br />Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"<br />and expect it to be handed back to you<br />on a shiny plate.<br /><br />Still, I like your spirit.<br />Anyone who says, "Here's my address,<br />write me a poem," deserves something in reply.<br />So I'll tell you a secret instead:<br />poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,<br />they are sleeping. They are the shadows<br />drifting across our ceilings the moment<br />before we wake up. What we have to do<br />is live in a way that lets us find them.<br /><br />Once I knew a man who gave his wife<br />two skunks for a valentine.<br />He couldn't understand why she was crying.<br />"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."<br />And he was serious. He was a serious man<br />who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly<br />just because the world said so. He really<br />liked those skunks. So, he reinvented them<br />as valentines and they became beautiful.<br />At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding<br />in the eyes of the skunks for centuries<br />crawled out and curled up at his feet.<br /><br />Maybe if we reinvent whatever our lives give us<br />we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock<br />in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.<br />And let me know.<br />Jaceyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07835431483565124058noreply@blogger.com