Well, I read the article linked to, and I don't suppose I had the reaction I was supposed to have. In fact, I pretty much agree, though with some important caveats, with the quote by Eggers:
Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them.
Caveats: I think it's perfectly fine to "be a critic". Being a critic isn't a bad thing in and of itself. I admire Howard Bloom, just to name an example of a critic of poetry who is not also a known poet himself, more than I admire a great many known poets. I think he has done great things in the world of literary critique, and he obviously knows how to read poetry. I love his defense of Shelley, for example, against many famous poets who thought ill of him and claimd he had a "tin ear" - Auden, I think, and a few others. While I don't think Shelley had a great ear, it wasn't a tin ear. If you want to know a famous poet I think truly did have a tin ear, it was _ _. On second thought, nevermind. I always get into heaps of trouble when I mention this great poet. He was a contemporary of Shakespeare, and everyone seems to love him to death. I find many of his works very fine, but by and large I find him almost impossible to read at length. If anyone is curious about whom I'm referring to, my inbox is open.
Another caveat: I think you can dismiss a work of art without being able to create something in the same medium, but it should be something one does rarely, not as a matter of routine. I rudely dismissed a major motion picture in an Amazon review which I thought was not only garbage but evil garbage, but I made sure to point out the movie's technical cred first, and explaind that I thought the film was a waste of the talents of many people who workd hard on getting the film out. One shouldn't just wantonly dismiss works of art—particularly something like a film, which usually requires years of work and the concerted efforts of hundreds of skilled and talented individuals—without expecting someone at some point to call you on it and remind you to mind your manners.
Also, doesn't a "dismissal" of a work of art come with an implied agreement that while the dismiss-or has waved her hand and dismissed, it's granted that the work of the dismis-ee may, and no doubt does, have appeal to other people who do not agree with the opinions of the dismiss-or? The appreciation of art always has been, and alway will be, subjective. Even Ayn Rand, the fountainhead of Objectivism, admits to that, in her book, The Romantic Manifesto. I think a great many people forget that simple fact in the haze of their anger & indignation while loading their slings & arrows.
I was also prompted to read this poet August Kleinzahler's "takedown of Garrison Keillor". I'd never heard of Mr. Kleinzahler before, since I spend my time discovering & reading the work of long dead poets and intentionally ignore the contemporary ones, on principle (except my brethren here on the Sphere, of course, and precious few others, like Richard Kenney, frinstance, whom I had never heard of until I saw his name mentiond by my friend Don L. Lee on a post hereabouts). Well, I didn't care much for Kleinzahler's 'takedown', though I was forced to agree with a lot of what he said, or at least the points made in what he said. I checkd out some of Kleinzahler's poems at the Poetry Foundation's website, and was very impressd with one poem in particular, which I found excellent. This one:
It actually excited me, which rarely happens anymore when I read contemporary poetry, particularly poetry in free verse. This poem reminded me of William Carlos Williams at his best, and many others in that modern American vein. The vocabulary, the lists (I have an inordinate fondness for lists in poems), the older language: oaks, poplars, timber, Ford chassis, rock salt., contrasted with a newer, techy language: formaldehyde from the coffee plant,/ dyes, unimaginable solvents—/ a soup of polymers, oxides,... , which brought to mind various late C20 American poets, chiefly Hugh Seidman. His fast, streetwise style is sort of similar, at least in this poem, to the cyberpunk novelist William Gibson. That being said, let me reach for my prophet's hat (*dons prophet's hat*) and predict that the bulk of Kleinzahler's work will not have the same endurance & survivability as many of the poems he so confidently dismisses; or, more correctly: the kind of poems he seems to disdain, and which Keillor favors. I may be wrong, and probably am. But that's my prediction.
I'm very interested in reading Keillor's response to Kleinzahler's rant, if he did respond, if I can find it. I hope he mentiond that the edgy, gritty, & somewhat mouthy Kleinzahler seemd to have forgotten that poetry is not some sort of elitist enterprise, but is for Everyman. I dislike saccharine, preachy, overtly sentimental poetry as much as the next guy; but I know that there are many readers of poetry who like that sort of thing. Hence the Edgar Guests, James Kavanaughs, Rod McKuens, and [insert your favorite homespun and/or "popular" poet here]s of the world. Furthermore, skilled poets who write in that vein can, and often do, make things which are quite beautiful and lasting, and which are more than entitled to a place in the canon. Whether Mr. Kleinzahler likes it or not.
What I really want to say is that I believe the world is, frankly, choked and brimming o'er with poets, good & bad. And of these poets—
and I'm not the least bit interested in the "what is poetry" debate. There's no controversy. If a person makes a pile of words in a certain fashion that the greater majority of intelligent readers will recognize as poetry, and particularly if said person calls her work a 'poem', then it's a poem. The thing worth discussing is whether or not the pile of words, the poem, is worth reading, remembering, and being passed on
—far too many of them seem to be far more concernd with having others read their work than they are about reading the work of others, past and present. My opinion is that we need to slow down, look around, slow down some more, look around some more, and keep slowing down. We need to sit back and begin to appreciate the gigantic mountain of work our ancestors have made for us to enjoy (or not). I spend hours going through various archives: Gutenberg, Google Books, the Internet Archive, Amazon's Kindle, the Luminarium, and many other sites around the Net, and I'm finding poets and authors whom I've never heard of, literally on a daily basis. Granted, many of these people have left work which has been understandably and deservedly swept into the shadowy corners of neglect; but there are an equal number, or so it seems, of people whose work I enjoy very much. I'm especially happy to have not died without having read the longer or lesser known poems of Joel Barlow, Gavin Douglas, Archibald Lampman, Charles Harpur, Richard Watson Dixon, George Darley, Henry Kirke White, Mary Cavendish, Henry Kendall, Jeanne Robert Foster, John Dyer, Edward Rowland Sill, Henry Timrod, James Beattie, Trumbull Stickney, William Collins, William Cowper, Isaac Watts, James Thomson, Felicia Hemans, George Eliot, Robert Southey, Thomas Lovell Beddoes, W.M. Praed, E.B. Browning, Sir David Lyndsay, Leigh Hunt, John Hamilton Reynolds, Abraham Cowley, Robert Bloomfield, Thomas Traherne, and, last but certainly not least, the American poet Albery A. Whitman, who pennd a fair, and occasionally brilliant, epic poem in Spenserian stanza called The Rape of Florida.
I don't worry about publishing my poems (although I do occasionally submit), because I think it's more incumbent on me to pay tribute to our ancestors than it is to spend too much energy, time, and money on making a name for myself, which, I am almost certain, wouldn't be all that big of a name. I really don't care much about formal publication, whether in print or online. I think I may have a few years left in which to at sometime pursue that interest. At present, I have a son who is on the cusp of adulthood who will be in charge of my stuff should something happen to me. I told him point blank: if you don't wish to do anything with it, then so be it. That will be your decision. If you decide to try and see how my work fares in the big world, take your time, do it when the feeling strikes you, if it strikes, and don't worry about it. He's a wicked smaht (Bostonian accent) boy and has a bit of an interest in poetry himself (he tells me he favors trochaic meter to iambic: he's 16), and he loves me a great deal. So all is well.
Just my tuppence.
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