I have with a lady companion being going to quite a few poetry readings of late. They have been very varied. VERY varied! From a disastrous and embarassing night at an charity bookshop which held out a night of poetry reading, the subject being 'One Million' and the remarkable fact that none of the half dozen or so 'poems' read out so badly even touched upon the theme. One was in fact a gross insult of couplet rhymed doggerel about how great the late Jimmy Saville was (take that or leave it as you will).
Last night was a different story with six poets reading all of them published ones (not that that matters) and although again some left me cold - and two left me nauseous - two others brought me elation. There was an absolutely super one (I'm watching too much re-runs of Ab-Fab) on the subject of the poet's little toe, well one of them, which written Rabbie Burns style, touched genius.
I am giving much thought to exactly what poetry is and I dont think there is any simple answer. I have two conclusions so far, though these might change. Poetry is far to restricted in its appeal and misses the masses. Poetry is however not egalitarian. How many truly awful poems (inlcuding some of mine) have I seen written on the spur by reps of those same masses who think that if two lines rhyme then it must be poetry regardless of content and style.
At the moment I am mentally attacking the conceit of the avant garde poets who write but to impress their cocktail bedecked friends and other 'poets' (?), and also the semi-educated who serve up reams of doggerel in an admittedly less coneceited way yet look for appreciation and live and love by the line 'I write poetry'
I found the poem below ( 'a found poem' as THEY say), and it partially sums up what a good poem should contain.....I think.....
The prize-winning poemby Fleur Adcock
It will be typed, of course, and not all in capitals: it will use upper and lower case
in the normal way; and where a space is usual it will have a space.
It will probably be on white paper, or possibly blue, but almost
certainly not pink.
It will not be decorated with ornamental scroll-work in coloured ink,
nor will a photograph of the poet be glued above his or her name,
and still less a snap of the poet’s children frolicking in a jolly game.
The poem will not be about feeling lonely and being fifteen
and unless the occasion of the competition is a royal jubilee
it will not be about the queen.
It will not be the first poem the author has written in his life
and will probably not be about the death of his daughter, son or wife
because although to write such elegies fulfils a therapeutic need
in large numbers they are deeply depressing for the judges to read.
The title will not be ‘Thoughts’ or ‘Life’ or ‘I Wonder Why’
or ‘The Bunny-rabbit’s Birthday Party’ or ‘In Days of Long Gone By’.
‘Tis and ‘twas, o’er and e’er, and such poetical contractions
will not be found
in the chosen poem.
Similarly cliche´s will not abound:
dawn will not herald another bright new day,
nor dew sparkle like
diamonds in a dell,
nor trees their arms upstretch.
Also the poet will be able to spell.
Large meaningless concepts will not be viewed with favour:
myriad is out;
infinity is becoming suspect;
aeons and galaxies are in some doubt.
Archaisms and inversions will not occur;
nymphs will not their fate bemoan.
Apart from this
there will be no restrictions upon the style or tone.
What is required is simply the masterpiece we’d all write if we could.
There is only one prescription for it: it’s got to be good.
