The Craft of Poetry

One of the few journals that has accepted my work has recently gotten a new editor. This editor has stated that there will be less attention to 'free association' writing, and more to the 'craft of poetry'.
Phew!
I know what that means.
It means he's not likely to publish me in future issues.
Not that my poems are 'free assocation'. They aren't. I work reasonably hard on each and every one, giving great thought to the nuance and meaning behind each and every word and image, after the initial inspiration that burst forth. There is a clear form, even if it is not an established form.
There is an addiction to phony formalism in poetry that sickens the soul. An adhesion to a formalism that does nothing to further meaning or expression.
It's interesting that I reject the standard forms of poetry, because I don't reject the standard forms of song - the 12 bar blues, the 32 bar song form, the 3 chord country songs. It seems like a contradiction, but it isn't really - I expect more from poetry, or something different. Songs can almost be poetry, but mostly they are just songs. I don't mean that in a demeaning way, because they are tied to music - the greatest art of all. Poetry is something else however, and if it is forced into the confines of an accepted form that will only be recognized as such if coming from a practitioner of the 'craft of poetry' it is as dead as snakeshit.

Is there craft in this poem?

Art

One must believe that there are modes of expression

that pull back the curtains

that cover the core of life.


I think so.

Exploitation

Growing up I had no feel for science. In fact, I was anti-science. We all were, me and the other little hippies, who knew so very little about almost anything. Some of those people still feel that way – they’ve carried an adolescent perspective into their senior years.

            Hey, that could be a good thing - the youth that refuses to die.

            Yeah!

            I’m with that rebellion. I will protect my innocent amazement of nature, intact in the face of the mercenary drive for mammon and prestige.

            Which is what science is all about - innocent amazement of nature - and the blowhards who rail against it in favour of airy-fairy lollipops that they find succour in sucking on can go get fucked, hopefully by a horse with a cock that will rip them from asshole to jawbone.

            As for myself, I finally got into the swing of science, saw it as the play that it really is, and became enthralled by the discovery of little bits of knowledge and insight that can be gained through persistent questioning and testing.

            Make no mistake; the pursuit of science is almost exactly the same as the pursuit of art, and its outputs are often equally abstract and at the same time equally necessary, though sometimes much more practical.

            In time, I gained some respect in my field – internationally - in spite of my dissolute younger years, and often got requests to review, or edit, or participate in gatherings, or in many other ways be invited to become an accepted member of the club.

            Yes, there is a club; as there is in all human endeavour. Don’t fucking kid yourself.  

            But there’s a telling piece of the picture that doesn’t fit; though it fits perfectly with a larger view of life that I’ve held since my days of walking to school with my buddies and expressing words too cynical for such a youngster.

            I’m good enough for this and this and this, but I’m not good enough for that…the very thing that I actually need…namely a job in my case...You can insert your own need or dream here if you wish...

            A cruel and unkind exploitation is found everywhere that humans exist.

            This is what we have to live with.

The Professionals

The burden of professionalism lies like a rock on the soul of creativity. There is more to treasure in the careless tinkerings of some artists than in the carefully honed and rehearsed constructions of others.

            I said that one night as we sat around in the kitchen; she with a white wine and me with the inevitable beer.

            “You’re copping out.” she said.

            “I’m serious! People miss out on a lot because they want perfect little turds wrapped up in neat little packages, bows tied.”

            She winced. She was frustrated with me. I could see that, but I wasn’t sure why. Because surely it was true. I’d heard too many people praise too many so-and-so’s who seemed to be without soul, for their clever little ditties. There were recipes to follow.

            The clock on the wall made an abnormally loud click as the top of the hour rolled into place. It had never done that before.

            “You’re just lazy.”

            “I used to think that too, but I’m not so sure anymore. Working too hard at it seems to squelch what it is I really want to do.”

            “What is it that you really want to do?”

            “Find something new, all the time. And find honest expression.”

            “What are the chances of that?”

            “If you can do it once, you can do it again. If not, then no matter how professional you are it doesn’t really matter - might as well sell used cars.” I took a hit of beer. “It won’t always work. Sometimes it will be the same old shit, it’s true. It’s a matter of probabilities. One has to take the chance. Chances are, if you don’t try too hard, it’ll happen. As far as honest expression goes, the chances are slimmer. We have a lot of skilled people but precious little of that.”

            “The probabilistic guy.” she said. She was sceptical about this view of life, though she knew it was as organic as wheatgrass to me. Play it by the probabilities.

            “Ya, that’s me.” I took a pull off the beer, afterward squelching an incredible interior burp, a heroic implosion.

            She smiled in hopeless abandon and we both laughed, wrinkles coming together along the sides of our eyes. Silliness really was the unabashed master.

            I saw that there was a good probability that we would be making some sweet moves along the sheets quite soon, and that made me look on the bright side of things.       

            We had a chance in life, after all.