In the defense of “greeting card verse” and normal folks who like art

I’ve finally written a new poem that I actually like.  It’s been a while since I posted one.  Poems have been few and far between for me lately.  Writing poetry has become sort of painful.  When I was younger, I would write a poem about every other thing that happened in my life.  They flowed easily and unselfconsciously, and though most of them weren’t anything a literary journal would be jumping to publish, at least they made me happy. 

Now so little of the poetry I write pleases me.  And I don’t particularly enjoy writing it, either.

What’s the difference? 

For one thing, I’ve had a little bit of training.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming my professors or any of the other people who’ve taught me in the past.  My poetry professor was the best professor I had last year, and the people I had class with were great.  But that little bit of training was enough to push me into no man’s land, that desolate place between so-called pedestrian verse and the stuffy kind of poetry that only MFAs enjoy.  I don’t write the kind of stuff that your average high-school-educated Joe would necessarily like, but I don’t write to appease the highfalutin folk either.  Really, I don’t know who I’m writing for anymore.  And that is a grave problem.  Ted Kooser, in The Poetry Home Repair Manual, says that you need what he calls an “Imaginary Reader,” someone who represents your audience.  Similiarly, Steven King calls that person the “Ideal Reader” in On Writing.   

Sadly, I don’t have either. 

And I can’t be one of those people who pretends that they only write to please themselves, because that’s not true.  I really can’t stand those kind of people.  There’s no joy in making something beautiful if you’re only going to keep it under wraps.  But lately, it comes so slow that by the time I’m finished with it, I’m so bloody sick of it that I can’t honestly tell you whether I like the poem or not, and for that reason, I don’t really feel like showing it to anyone.  This is not conducive to growth in my poetic pursuits. 

And frankly, I’m disgusted with the arts in general, especially visual art and poetry.  Both have become the stomping grounds of elitists, over-schooled intellectuals, and snobs.  If were to walk up to any given professor in the creative writing department here and tell them that my favorite poets were Robert Frost and Billy Collins (they aren’t, but that’s not the point), they would probably roll their eyes inwardly and stifle a snicker.  Or they might pass out from horror that I (a creative writing minor!) would like something so woefully common, so average, so quotidian!  So many trained writers automatically dismiss, at least in part, the writing that pleases the masses, without thinking that perhaps there is actually a reason that that particular writer does please the masses. 

Same thing with art.  Professional artists, as well as art critics, museum curators, and art professors, think there’s something wrong with you if you can’t talk about a piece in lofty terms.  What happened to, “Because it’s beautiful?”  Why does there always have to be a reason, a deep underlying current of meaning?  Sometimes the only reason for something is your appreciation for it, for a beautiful landscape, for a beautiful moment.  I’m not saying it’s not good to be able to talk about poetry and art in a sophisticated manner.  But it’s not good to poopoo those who can’t.  And some people can’t. 

Elitists, too, disdain everyday folks who write what they deem “greeting card verse” or sing-songy poetry.  Who in the hell gave them the right to tear these people apart?  A good deal of them aren’t ever going to publish or even seek to publish.  Not every person who makes a rhyme is going to turn into Yeats.  Not every person who writes poetry is the next Thomas Lux.  They know that!  I’m not saying it’s the kind of writing that I want to read, but if they want to write, more power to them.  You don’t have to read it if you don’t like it, and if you don’t like it, keep that fact to yourself.  Writing pleases them and gives them joy.  And it takes an enormous amount of courage to present anything you’ve made yourself, to share something that you feel has a little bit of your soul in it.  I can’t understand what educated poets are trying to achieve by making fun of blogs and websites where everyday folks post their poetry.  They can tell what kind of website they’re looking at in a few glances, and if it doesn’t match what they’re looking for, they should just move on.  Snide comments and jibes won’t get anyone anywhere. 

In other words, pooey on elitists!

On that note, here’s my poem:
The Snakeskin
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(This poem has been archived.)