The Problem Of Poetry Publishers: Danse Macabre

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The Problem of Poetry Publishers: Danse Macabre

What makes a poem a poem and not mere prose written in verse and meter? First, to write a poem, one must think in terms of poetry, its tricks and turns of phrase, its music and meter (however one wants to interpret such), its grab and hold, even its mystery and outright enigma, and certainly its rhetoric. And what is the shape of shame? We’re soon to see. What one finds in many journals is a form of “poetic” prose written in line, an attempt to write in verse divorced from that which is its historical identity. The poetaster fails to differentiate between two very different types of writing, instead working in a realm ignoring the knowledge of this very difference. Perhaps he, the inept poet, fails before he even puts pen to page, for his mindset itself is unpoetic. It is my belief that the poorly written poetry published by most of the literary magazines of our times calls to be criticized for the tripe it truly is.

To show that of which I speak, I have chosen to evaluate the poems of one journal in particular, an online publication called, Danse Macabre, edited by one Adam Henry Carrière. Note that this magazine also contains prose, though I shall avoid the evisceration of that work.

I shall first dissect the first four poems of Danse Macabre’s latest issue, then on to the work of the poetaster premier himself, Adam Henry Carrière, whom I shall primarily refer to from here on as Hank. Now to the horror. The first poem of the current issue, xlix, is this. Let me begin by making my aesthetic incisions into this piece of poetastry:

Fred Chandler

The Disclaimer

Did you know you were born

 with a warning label?

  You were bought into this

  world with a limited warranty,

  Depending on how you were

  used certain parts are replaceable, 

Eventually your usefulness ends 

or you simply just wear out,

  When that happens you could

  end up on a collector's wall

  which would be special, 

Or you could end up being

  put in some unique museum 

which would be rare,

 Or just as a matter of fact

  be tossed into the garbage,

  But, hopefully, you could

  catch a break and be recycled!

First of all, note that the lines are divided in many cases unnecessarily, the first two lines being a case of this manifest in full:

“Did you know you were born

  with a warning label?”

This dividing-by-phrase approach is found in much prosaic poetry; with such a practice, each line consists of either a phrase or a clause, which happens to be the reasoning for the separation of lines in general. Chandler’s choice of line separation here could be a choice based on enjambment; if this be the case, the first line asks simply “Did you know you were born”? An interesting question by itself, without “with a warning label.” But such may not be the case. So, we may never know why he divided the clause “you were born with a warning label.” Beyond this, let us note that one could not hope for a more mundane beginning. Not only does this reek of cliché in its use of “warning label,” but the trope itself is, to say the least, tired, not by overuse but by use itself. In a poem, as in any linear artform, the beginning and ending hold an exaggerated weight; these are generally the lines to be remembered; these lines usually outline the identity of a poem; many poetry collections even end with an index of first lines, making them as important as, if not more important than, the titles themselves. What a way to begin, Hank. This is what knocks your socks? Off to a quotidian beginning, now this:

“You were bought into this

  world with a limited warranty,”

Does the poet actually mean “bought,” or is this a misspelling (brought, the word intended)? If the former be the case, it shows at least some sort of ingenuity, yet one suspects the latter. Once again, the use of the contemporary idea, “limited warranty,” much like “warning label,” seems to lend cliché to its cause; if not actual cliché, it at least deserves the label, commonplace. Note that most of the works in this magazine tend to use this device, as does Hank himself. The use of commonplaces and clichés takes away from the value of the poem because good poetry calls for fresh, original, even unique diction, phrasing, and lining; the poem, with its limited space and crafty concision calls for the best use of language possible, which really means the use of a singular poetic voice with its singular expressions; this, by the way, is merely the foundation of good poetry, a mere beginning to soundness of craft.

“Depending on how you were

 used certain parts are replaceable,”

The capital d promptly indicates that this was meant to be a new sentence; a period after “warranty” implies itself, so why is it missing? Why also is “used” on the line below, considering the method follows phrase or clause? Once again, this could be a matter of enjambment if one allows that “used” reflects on the parts replaceable. But is this the case? If so, the enjambment does not make the second of the two lines any better. One could say the first line here is by its unexceptional expression mired in sub-mediocrity. Once again, we get the contemporary trope of parts replaceable, adhering to the mundane train of thought throughout.

“Eventually your usefulness ends 

or you simply just wear out,”

Another instance of misplaced punctuation, but enough of that; let it be as it will. Again, a contemporary collection in two references, “usefulness” and “wear out.” An addition of the redundant “simply but” points to a lack of precision as well as a disregard for the ever-poetic concision. Is this piece a dud or what?

“When that happens you could

  end up on a collector's wall

 which would be special,”

A semicolon calls out to be after “wear out.” What are we to presume of the prosaic “which would be special?” I feel special when I end up on a collector’s wall, after my usefulness ends or I just or simply wear out. And what of the repeated use of tautology? Of course it would be special to “end up on a collector’s wall;” the idea of being special is contained in that line. To justify tautology in a poem, there better be some fantastic wordplay in the repetition, some sort of importance, emphasis, or let us say, weight. What the hell is this? Poetry from the cellar of creation! And what is worse:

“Or you could end up being

  put in some unique museum 

which would be rare,”

The capital o—need I say more? And again the reflection on what has just been proffered: “which would be rare.” Tautology, again! “Unique” and “rare,” get the connection? In this case tautology equals truism, equals a waste of words—not that the prior two lines are any better. Okay, I guess it would be rare to end up “in some unique museum.” Though how would one feel to end up in a commonplace museum, or a commonplace poem at that? My dear Hank, is this the masterpiece you’ve been hankering for?

“Or just as a matter of fact

  be tossed into the garbage,”

The capital o wants punctuation other than the comma; in a poem that capitalizes every line, this would not be the case. One cannot help but believe this could be better worded. Subverting the cliché “tossed into the garbage” would be just a beginning. Straight from the heap of my mind, why not something like, “tossed in too, the garbage?” You see? This idea uses multiple meanings to convey a cliché without adhering to its commonness. Such tricks are located in the bag of poetic craft. And why “just” before “as a matter of fact?” Concision, please, if not creative ideation. Where is the magic of poesy? Where the insight? I’m working with you here, Fred Chandler, but how much repair do you require?

“But, hopefully, you could

 catch a break and be recycled!”

Finally, we are to catch a cliché, and super-contemporaneously “be recycled.” And do not forget to end your work with an exclamation point, as if to say, look at what I have said! Or, well, written! And not well. The disregard for line that this poem displays, if in fact this is not an attempt t enjambment, also shows in the work of the editor, but what does line matter to a hack like Hank? In his own poetry, Carrière freely plays hanky-panky with his verses, a single poem appearing in two places each with its own layout. Nothing sacred in the limning of the poem for this man who wantons word, this lover of the random arrangement of the wandering, torpid term.

Since we have repeated the subject of enjambment, I shall here offer a couple fine uses of such by a well-known writer, Rainer Rilke. In The Sonnets to Orpheus, this version translated by A. Poulin Jr., there are two poems in particular that offer a good use of this technique. First, “Sonnet 17:”

Where, in what heavenly watered gardens, in what trees,

from what lovely unsheathed flower-calyxes

do the strange fruits of consolation ripen? Those precious

fruits, one of which you find perhaps in the trampled field

of your poverty? Time after time you marvel

at the size of the fruit, its soundness . . .

This poem offers two examples of enjambment. First, the line “do the strange fruits of consolation ripen? Those precious;” notice the beginning of the second sentence points at the first: “those precious” what? Those precious fruits of consolation; the next line even confirms this relation, beginning with “fruits.” Next, the line “of your poverty? Time after time you marvel;” this holds the meaning that time after time you marvel at your poverty, even though this is not the primary meaning of either sentence. To cement in the mind this tool of enjambment, I offer a second example, this one from “Sonnet 25.” Although this poem includes five examples of enjambment, I’ll limit myself to two:

. . . Whatever’s coming doesn’t seem

stale to you. What’s already come toward

you so often seems to be approaching you

like something new. You always expected

but never seized it. . . .

Okay, “stale to you. What’s already come toward;” this contains the secondary meaning that “what’s already come toward” is “stale to you.” Interesting, considering he just said “Whatever’s coming doesn’t seem stale to you.” Now, “like something new. You always expected.” Here the idea is straightforward. The ideas, the meaning contained in the sentence and the meaning contained in the line (the enjambment), can agree or contradict one another; and they could reasonably do something else altogether. It could be argued that Rilke or the translator did not intend this, but it is there. Enough of enjambment. I’ve already tempted controversy enough.

I must apologize for my long-winded assessment of a poem not worth its own words, much less mine, but we are now on to the publisher’s next offering, this one also by Fred Chandler. Sorry, Fred, but one is sometimes called to “call a spade” as your humble editor called me (Was he really referring to me with a variation on that racist moniker that begins and ends with n and r?):

The Landing

Our ship hit land in to a strange unknown

where we all met a new world we weren't

  prepared for and we found habitats of old

  who were the natives and not foreigners who

  were truly blessed and were the eternal gods

  who had no masters or slaves but there was

  the island where we join in a human enclave

First, I must say, I almost thought, if only for a moment that this poem uses some form of enjambment worth the name, but . . . but, no. Since this poem is so short, I’ll present it line by line.

“Our ship hit land in to a strange unknown”

Although this first line cries for punctuation, I must say it reads much better than the first of the last. Unfortunately a somewhat promising beginning adds up to little. At least this one doesn’t suffer the problem of punctuation, that tool defenestrated entire. Both “in to” and “into,” some degree of multiple possibilities; and “a strange unknown,” which leads one to wonder, but can this poem deliver on its promise?

“where we all met a new world we weren't”

Yes, “a new world,” let us say, not very original; but “a new world we weren’t,” if only I believed this were a turn intentional. Hell, I’ll give this line some credit. Good one, a world we weren’t.

“prepared for and we found habitats of old”

Nothing wrong with this line taken alone. It completes the previous and introduces “habitats of old.” The problem arises with the next line’s first word, which we assume should speak of habitats of old, but:

“who were the natives and not foreigners who”

“Habitats of old” “who?” If it were “inhabitants of old,” this would work. Okay, forget problems of punctuation, now we have a grammatical oops unexplained. Other than that I admit it of some interest that the natives are not foreigners. But why the “who” at line’s end? It does nothing for the verse. A simple case of bad lining or verse.

“were truly blessed and were the eternal gods”

Well, these natives not foreigners “were truly blessed,” somewhat trite; but they were also “eternal gods;” let us just say that they need be only eternal or gods, otherwise we have truism and tautology par excellence and therefore a lack of concision. Are there gods not eternal? Possibly, but generally I would say no. Am I being pedantic here? Perhaps pedantically poetic.

“who had no masters or slaves but there was”

They “had no masters or slaves,” nothing wrong with that, a statement pointing to the ethical nature of the inhabitants. But why is “but there was” on this line? It offers nothing to the statement prior. Maybe there were masters and slaves in the lines alternate meaning, but I doubt such an intention. Perhaps save this beginning for the next.

“the island where we join in a human enclave”

What does this conclusion offer? Nothing spectacular, nothing of insight, nothing for us to remember in our parting. Just “a human enclave,” “a distinct . . . unit enclosed within or as if within foreign territory.”(Merriam-Webster) I would most likely be adding too much to this writing if I were to acknowledge that this, in its way, contradicts that stated former, that they were “not foreigners.” This poem also displays a problem grammatical in the area of verb tense in the last line. Anyway, what is the upside of this poem, dear editor? Your call so clarion for the hackneyed and hammed.

Now the next two, both by Shane DeMonica, read much better, though they still fall short of being good poems. Even Hank can, by some mess of chance, happen on something almost worth its words. Here goes:

Shane DeMonica

Never Bought That Suit

I dream of Death,

 ponder the supple nothing

 while wide awake. Each

time the thought confronts,

 reveals a flake of reality,

 I say, Later. My escape.

 Death always obliges.

But, this morning

before the raw Sun rose

 to illuminate routine,

 later failed.

And, although I was not

 surprised, I got caught

having never bought that suit.

This could have been such a fine beginning:

“I dream of Death,

ponder the supple nothing

  while wide awake. Each”

“I dream of Death,” a solid first line; and “ponder the supple nothing,” again a firmly grounded pondering; but, “while wide awake.” Here we witness once more the editor’s inability to cull cliché from well-worded work. Jettison the “wide” and we have “awake;” one could even offer another form of wakefulness. “Each” what?

 ”time the thought confronts,

reveals a flake of reality,

I say, Later. My escape.”

The thought of “Death,” “the supple nothing,” or another thought altogether, “confronts,” “reveals a flake of reality.” He says, “Later” and “my escape.” Not bad. The next few lines for the most part work as well.

“Death always obliges.

 But, this morning

 before the raw Sun rose

 to illuminate routine,

later failed.”

It appears we have a poem here; even ambiguity ambles to the fore with “later failed.” What failed, Death or the Sun? Poetry, the devil forfend! All this said, the line, “later failed” seems to lack its proper grammatical context. We can let this loose, considering the ambiguity and multiplicity of meaning here applied; such make up a part of what a good poem includes. In fact, with poetry the more meanings possible in its reading, the better the poem, even to the edge of mystery itself, enigma.

”And, although I was not

 surprised, I got caught

 having never bought that suit.”

Unfortunately he is not the only one “not surprised.” This is the end? Maybe this can remain an obscure reference, “having never bought that suit.” The suit that would have kept him from getting caught? Without the requisite comma this could mean he got caught not buying the suit, but let that sleep, and maybe even dream of death. Okay, the penultimate line and that before are good, and can even be said to contain some good enjambment: “although I was not” possibly even a reference to death; and “surprised, I got caught,” contradicting that he was not surprised. And, considering we may have a reference to death, the suit may be the one he is to wear at his funeral. Although this is interesting, I cannot say the last line is as good as other parts of the poem. It may be meant as a surprise ending, but the effect remains rather weak. The ending is not good. Again, a good beginning and ending really outline a good piece of linear art. But that aside, for Hank rewards mediocrity, even if he himself cannot achieve it. As we shall soon see, when we analyze Carrierre’s own poem, Shane DeMonica is a much better writer than the other two. Now the last of our four poems from the Danse, this one also by DeMonica:

Your Gaze

your gaze

  petrifies logs

  hews the hush of fogs

you raze

  sanity and birth

  deadly trembling dearth

a wonder

  in my riven mind

Once again, the defenestration of punctuation. Even an advocate of idiocy like Hank can, perhaps by happenstance, stumble on a poem that works. It really is “a wonder in my riven mind” that he could manage against all odds to publish a poem that is almost good. Congratulations, Mr. DeMonica, on defying the razor I put to the rind. Although the first two lines ring trite, the rest of the poem reads true to its form. We have in this poem good and even original diction and phrasing, a little rhyme scheme (even if it only involves six lines, it is done well), and a well-worded end that lends a sense of the mysterious to what already impresses us with its wonder. Every line but the first two carry some weight. All you need here is a better beginning. Why does your cockatrice petrify only wood? A step above mediocrity, the almost-good. Congratulations. Keep on riving. Your poetry is better than Hank’s. Speaking of which, here is one version of a poem by our editor. Let us prune some pomp of pretention.

Sleeping with Degrelle

I bedded on a hard rock,

fell asleep,

listening to Haydn.

Gassy water churned

my frame, my pale

cuisine. The Metro

stopped in my dream.

Even homeless immigrants,

stars, carried on

as proper citizens,

comfortable in their arrogant

tax-paying. My storm-tossed

pillow time gave up

to the secret police,

seeking a collaborator

for inquiry into dark

passages they’d been told

in a recent sermon

ignored by the networks.

The dream soon gave way

to living daylight but no

body rose in the clatter

of the nightmare.

A store-bought nuclear force,

I kept running, disco to disco,

smashing open painted windows,

letting in fresh diesel exhaust,

allowing beer-drenched sweat

and mass-marketed smoke respite.

Cold neighborhood air

invaded the dance floor,

staccato electricity circuited

into glorious acoustic form,

transforming the half naked

into proper believers clad

in white tuxedos, galley slaves

swathed in sero-negativity;

they wept with humble Pei,

leaping through glass pyramids

onto display of tourist-friendly

masterpieces. The cold barrel

of a very old profession

woke me with a start.

My panic left fitfully

sleeping puddles

on the boutique of far-right

barricades, where the rest of gay

had been concentrated,

unable to correspond with the rest

of Europe without handcuffs,

plastic gloves, and generic facial masks.

An insensitive distance,

ruined Lutheran temples

and looming Roman Eglise

kept egalitarian sympathy over

our huddled bodies until one

of us fell, at first from exhaustion,

then from hunger, finally,

from a luridly antiseptic fever,

a disease so clinical, so

mathematical, democratic, even,

in its efficiency, in our death

throes, we called it civilized.

I pulled a young missionary corpse

into my perforated arms, running

my face into the mud and rain

caking his blond features

before using him to shield

my unnoticed passing into the side

walks of the unborn.

Okay, Degrelle, Léon Joseph Marie Ignace Degrelle, was a Belgian politician who founded a group called the Rexists. He sided with and fought for the Nazis in World War II. And so on . . . Who is sleeping with him? Hank, perhaps (applaud the irony here). Is our dear poet dead, like Degrelle, as in “sleeping with the fishes?” Is the title filched from a video in the foreign film section? Or what does it even matter? Degrelle may even be someone else. Anyway, on to the innards of this work written magna cum laude:

“I bedded on a hard rock,

fell asleep,

listening to Haydn.

Gassy water churned

my frame, my pale

cuisine. The Metro”

Since this poem comprises so many lines, we’ll examine it in large chunks. “A hard rock” in the first line. It would be much more comfortable bedding on a soft rock, but, oh, how rare. A truism at the outset. He fell asleep listening to Haydn; this name drop contains nothing of insight into the music itself other than the possibility of it lulling one to sleep. This sort of ejaculation of well-known names registers itself in multiple of Adam Henry Carriere’s poems, yet he has little of insight or impress to say about the famous person named; it smells more of a bad habit than a skillful poetic tool. His frame is “pale cuisine.” Is this a reference to his girth, or maybe it is a reference to Caucasian food? And what have we of Degrelle so far? A title. Warning to the lover of poetry: this poem contains no music (alliteration, assonance, consonance, rhyme, meter); nor does it offer anything in the way of good rhetoric (irony, word and phrase placement/arrangement/repetition, symmetries/parallelism, etc., although the poem has one obscure pun and a few questionable analogies and metaphors, e.g. homeless immigrant stars, in the next section).

“stopped in my dream.

Even homeless immigrants,

stars, carried on

as proper citizens,

comfortable in their arrogant

tax-paying. My storm-tossed”

The “metro,” alright, but has it to do with anything else written here? And “homeless immigrants, stars;” I’d like to see a star carry on “as proper citizens.” How is a homeless immigrant like a star anyway? That aside, the proper citizens (the bourgeoisie, Hank?) are “comfortable in their arrogant tax-paying.” I suppose this means they look down on those who don’t pay income tax—ever heard of sales tax, which even the homeless must pay? Oh no, the homeless carry on as proper citizens, so I guess they too are arrogant in their tax-paying. And “storm-tossed,” a commonplace if ever there were.

“pillow time gave up

to the secret police,

seeking a collaborator

for inquiry into dark

passages they’d been told

in a recent sermon

ignored by the networks.”

“Storm-tossed pillow time,” having trouble sleeping? What a horrible phrase, almost infantile in its expression. “The secret police,” an actual reference (maybe) to fascists possibly tying the poem to its title. “They’d been told” “inquiry into dark passages,” odd grammar, but they also seek a collaborator in this effort. “Passages they’d been told in a recent sermon ignored by the networks:” “the networks,” a contemporaneous reference, ignore that told “in a recent sermon.” Do I have this right? Not quite hip, yet. This is not obscure or even vague, just stupid.

“The dream soon gave way

to living daylight but no

body rose in the clatter

of the nightmare.”

Yes, Hank, this is the best sentence of your poem, no outright cliché, commonplace, trite phrase; hell, not even a namedrop to those of renown. Too bad you cannot write an entire poem in this mental frame. By itself this would be a pretty good poem; no luck such.

“A store-bought nuclear force,

I kept running, disco to disco,

smashing open painted windows,

letting in fresh diesel exhaust,

allowing beer-drenched sweat

and mass-marketed smoke respite.”

First a contemporary shout-out, “store-bought,” then “nuclear force,” a reference to

“the dream,” “living daylight,” “the clatter,” or the “nightmare.” “A store-bought nuclear force,” I mean, come on. Where is the poetic language in this work? What an ugly and absolutely unnecessary phrase. “Disco to disco,” keep the poem modern (or post-modern) and aim to be hip; “fresh diesel exhaust,” an oxymoron of sorts. What is “allowing?” The “open painted windows?” “Beer-drenched sweat:” why is the sweat beer-drenched? Wouldn’t one be beer-drenched and sweating? And what does this have to do with an open window? And what in the name of all things English is “mass-marketed smoke respite?” A smoke break, perhaps? Respite from the smoke, I suppose, but where is this marketed? Maybe the rest of the poem will explain. But “mass-marketed?” Isn’t this a bit commonplace, Hank? Oh, that’s the point, isn’t it—the commonplace as a tool itself? Horrible!

“Cold neighborhood air

invaded the dance floor,

staccato electricity circuited

into glorious acoustic form,

transforming the half naked

into proper believers clad

in white tuxedos, galley slaves

swathed in sero-negativity;”

Okay, no explanation of the “mass-marketed smoke respite.” “Cold neighborhood air invaded the dance floor,”—not so good (Are you starting a pop song here?); “staccato electricity circuited into glorious acoustic form,”—pretty good, two references to music and, hence, the disco. This electric music transforms, dressing the “half naked” in “white tuxedos” and making them believers. I guess you won’t be explaining how the half naked in tuxedos equate with “galley slaves swathed in sero-negativity.” But this part is not bad; at least you avoid the triteness that makes up most of the poem.

“they wept with humble Pei,

leaping through glass pyramids

onto display of tourist-friendly

masterpieces. The cold barrel

of a very old profession

woke me with a start.”

First you subvert a cliché with “humble Pei;” whether “Pei” refers to a Chinese surname or “the master of modern architecture,” or something else entirely, we’ll be left to wonder—yes, wonder, one of the products of mastery and greatness; unfortunately this line is not enough for that. And here we have weeping, half-naked, galley slaves “leaping through glass pyramids” (Has this something to do with living in Las Vegas?), and “onto display of tourist-friendly masterpieces.” I guess if they are meant for tourists they’re not really masterpieces. A gunshot (?) woke you “with a start,” a good phrase followed by an unforgivable cliché. Why didn’t our humble editor subvert this glaring commonplace? Cliché acquires a rating less than its first letter, that is, less than mediocre. Yes sir, “a very old profession” is a commonplace, while “woke me with a start” is not only a cliché, but an unforgiveable one. Let us continue with our mean evaluation of this endless work:

“My panic left fitfully

sleeping puddles

on the boutique of far-right

barricades, where the rest of gay

had been concentrated,

unable to correspond with the rest

of Europe without handcuffs,

plastic gloves, and generic facial masks.”

Now I wonder if I’m capable of the task of dissecting your Meisterwerk. . . . Nevertheless, we encounter here more restless sleep and maybe sweat on a specialty shop “of far-right barricades,” where the happy or the homosexuals “had been concentrated.” Just words thrown together, folks. Does this poem aim at chaos or what? What call for the following heap of words? How would “handcuffs, plastic gloves, and generic facial masks” help one to correspond with Europe? Is this, finally, a reference to Nazis? And in this mess of words, why “generic” facial masks? Why not brand-name facial masks? It would suit your style of using the contemporaneous as a tool much better. Hank, your poem proves more humorous than it intends.

“An insensitive distance,

ruined Lutheran temples

and looming Roman Eglise

kept egalitarian sympathy over

our huddled bodies until one

of us fell, at first from exhaustion,

then from hunger, finally,

from a luridly antiseptic fever,

a disease so clinical, so

mathematical, democratic, even,

in its efficiency, in our death

throes, we called it civilized.”

Now we have a larger chunk of verbiage with which to contend. This is Hank’s attempt at rhetoric; too bad muddled meaning is not a category of such. Two versions of a church are equated with “an insensitive distance” (or is “an insensitive distance” meant to stand on its own?), which “kept egalitarian sympathy” (a sympathy of equality) over the gathered whomsoevers until they began to fall, at least one of them that is, from exhaustion and hunger, then from a gruesome, sensational, or wan, yet “antiseptic” fever, a disease medical, numeric, and political, “even . . . civilized” “in its efficiency.” Meaningless terms hurled in a disconnected manner make poor prose and much worse poetry. What would this heap of terminological madness (this terminological illness?) be without a handy cliché, tool of the poetaster par excellence? Yes, “in our death throes.” Hank can answer for this in poetic hell. Finally:

“I pulled a young missionary corpse

into my perforated arms, running

my face into the mud and rain

caking his blond features

before using him to shield

my unnoticed passing into the side

walks of the unborn.”

So, your “perforated arms”—have you been shot in both arms? And why are you running your face “into the mud and rain caking” (Does rain “cake,” really?) “his blond features?” Are you kissing him? Interesting. Then you use him to shield your passing “into the side walks” (sidewalks?) “of the unborn.” The ending is not bad, “walks of the unborn,” but the rest of the poem is a sub-mediocre mess. The ending may even gain you a position not too short of mediocrity. Hank, your poem is just as bad as those you publish, if not worse. Now we can say, Hank’s poem and the contents of his journal are rather putrid; truly, it is enough to irk one to illness. That said, I myself, and some friends, have garnered many a laugh at the expense of Hank’s output. As a note on something we’ve seen throughout our analysis, Carrierre’s own poetry as well as that he publishes seems to suffer from the fetish of contemporaneous ejaculation, always somehow in the nature of a decadent approach, a sterile attempt to shock you out of your shorts; the brain damage that Hank suffers seems to require this of his writers. Note here that both Hank and Fred Chandler have received grants for their writing (why Shane DeMonica hasn’t received such a grant, considering he is a better writer, puzzles). Now let us examine why such tripe finds publication in journals both on the internet and in print, not to mention the awarding of grants for such doggerel. Yes, I am about to approach that monster, that mongrel that hovers over art in all its aspects, aesthetics.

II.

Putting the aesthetic sense into words: since most would avoid such an attempt, I find I must. Here I think I should interpolate for the purpose of edification, and to be on record, I suppose, as well as for self-explanation, my aesthetical theories regarding the varieties of poetry, especially the good and the great. It is, as the reader may already have some idea, a theory touching the tropes of the common and the rarefied. Describing the aesthetic sense, the artistic sensibility attained through much trial, may prove quite difficult; one may even interject, impossible. How to account for such evaluation and taste well-tuned to its subject? Although it is impossible for me to be exhaustive in such a realm, I feel that I should be able at least to give some idea of what makes a poem work, and sometimes work well. And first things, you know, well, first.

Before anything else, we must acknowledge the levels of poetry. Level is certainly not an untouched area of art; movies are rated, paintings are compared to each other in terms of value (though not as commonly as movies), and poems themselves are valued, rated, in terms from very bad to great; I propose that when we speak of the quality of a work we are dealing primarily with level. I would also say that level is more a matter of idea, i.e. the use of technique, than a matter of style, although style lends much to that inimical (in a great work especially). Each level must have a quality its own, and knowledge of these qualities can only be attained through long trial (study?), if such knowledge is to be attained at all. Implicit in this view of art is that aesthetic values carry an objective weight; while I know many would like to assert that aesthetics is a primarily or even a completely subjective pursuit, experience contradicts such a claim. For example, we can place T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” beside Wallace Stevens’s “Anecdote of the Jar” and say that although both are well-written poems (and both are well-known poems), one is better than the other. Now, we must acknowledge that a work must be judged relative to other works; that means that a poem must be weighed against a poem written with a master’s craft, against what is considered a good poem, against a work honed mediocre, and finally against the poorly written work, the range running from great to bad or worse. Yes, the aesthete evaluates the value, the level, of a work, in addition to remarking the various elements of that work; his trusted wits have gained proper judgment through proper trial; that is, through the careful reading of a variety of poetry. Put plainly, and to add a degree of controversy, he gains judgment through judging.

Strangely, the aesthetic eye appears more scarce than that of the sciences, even in the aspect of the latter’s aspect of radical invention; indeed, possibly because it lacks utility, radical invention in the aesthetical realm seems almost a specter existing somewhere outside our wonted world of three dimensions. In aesthetics we are at work on the memory of an experience; it’s as if the aim is to more or less assault the senses of the reader with something somewhat foreign, to the point of virtual impression, the totality of the work, its pure form, most likely compressed into a shape symbolic, this shape obviously formed of the larger entirety of the work; in a way, this is a completion of the art, the poem expressed. It’s sometimes the case that the reader remembers the poem as he does a motion picture or even a painting; what’s left, beyond literal recall, is that impressed, the more the better expressed (this the case for any medium, though our concern here is poetry). To make one experience and remember this experience, even in symbol, the writer must actually shock, if you will, the senses of his reader, even his intuition, if not the mundane mode of his normal being; and one achieves this largely by a one-of-a-kind-ness, a uniqueness, an ability to affront with what seems almost foreign to the sensibilities, if not the senses; and the expression appears foreign specifically because of its singularity of impression. This idea of the unique being of primacy in poetry (and of course of aesthetics more broadly) explains perfectly why the trite and commonplace, why clichés are enemies of good poesy. Why “shock” the senses or sensibilities? Because we are dealing here with words as art; this writing is not that of the novel, short story, or essay, nor of any common type; this is where the possibility of “shock” comes into play, in the uncommonness of the expression, in the ability to relate information in a way far removed from the norm; therefore the shock is impressed in its effect in direct relation to the alien nature of the well-worded poem. These theories may seem unnecessarily abstract or even abstruse, but I believe they point toward an ultimate reality of assessment in the area of aesthetics, and therefore poetry; they outline a more objective aesthetics; in fact, I should say, the defying of such guiding principles shall lead one doubtless into the realms of the mediocre and the bad.

There must be some mention of potential in this elongated examination; some poems of a lower rank show the promise of a better rendering; of course, there are also works that for whatever reason appear to have reached their zenith, poems for which no amount of edit and repair can raise their value. That said, we must explore something very basic to the structure and therefore the entire nature of poetry; one of the most important aspects of the work of poetry is the line itself, hence, verse (the line); each line should be capable of holding its weight, of conveying a value its own, even if, as in certain cases, that line consists of a single word; this is to say, ultimately, that a one word line must be constructed of a, more or less, glorious term to justify itself as a line; even the two or three word line must be termed to, let’s say, tantalize—what use for these words? Is there a chance the reader will return to the poetic turn of phrase? Or will he gladly leave these spare words to languish on his way to forgetting such a faint ponder?

What can be said of good and great poems? The work must call to be reread, reassessed, and reworked in the mind of the reader, to make the pieces fit more surely, if fit they do (for in great poems, enigma may be the result of such effort), to draw from the puzzle what was not apparent upon first reading. In a well-written poem the subject or theme need not be especially strange, obscure, or shocking; but the method of conveyance must show an originality, something one in its kind; the approach must bear an ingenuity—this is the source of the “shock” or surprise that marks memory with its powerful symbolic imprint. It is the “shock” of the inimitable of which we speak. Another sort of shock can come of the commonplace and even the outright idiotic (e.g. various forms of “anti-art”), and, in turn leave its trace in memory, but this is nothing akin to the shock and surprise that comes of encountering the mastery of craft, that unique quality of the good and great; this latter shock acquires a subtlety turned symbol one can only call remarkable—that is, truly uncommon, worthy of its words and of repeated reflection. On this note, I’ll reflect that both obscurity and ambiguity work their magic in a well-lined poem, sometimes in combination. Additionally, the unique phraseology and physiognomy (the sound, the music, the rhetoric) of a poem work on the reader’s attention as a force of gravity, pulling at him and possibly pinning him to the words that make in combination a work well-done entire, good or great, to be admired even in memory; he may not remember even a single word but recall the impression it left on the intellect.

Good poetry is just that, good poetry: the craftsmanship, the rhetoric, the music, the concision, all are sound; the metaphors connect with certainty, even with a naturalness, no matter how tenuous their relation; perhaps wit and intelligent ideation shine in such a poem; multiple meaning is of importance in good poetry as well; note, these poems contain no triteness, clichés, nor commonplaces, and each line holds value or weight. Great poetry contains the elements of good poetry, but it displays something more; what this something is in many ways can defy description, but attempt as much I will; for one thing, great poetry is written from a point of intuition, all of the elements of poetry mastered to such a degree that the poet pours forth a work with connections beyond what is normal or obvious, his work wielding quite often a combination of mystery and wit; many times it’s as if the poet is writing around his subject, encircling his theme, either through the vagaries of intuition, the vague imprints of the mysterious, the wondrous outlines of obscurity, or he may even do so as a fabulous act of allegory; the great work is so organic in its use of technique that such rarely makes of itself anything nearing the outright ostentatious; the lines of such poetry are written with an unflagging certitude, sure in their order and design, the first and last lines especially confident in their expression, an expression often of mystery; it’s as if nothing can touch the structure and inner elements of the poem, and even the poem itself knows and expresses this; yes, a great poem will convince you, with whatever convincing is called for, and with an unquestionable confidence that can only come of that mystic intuition at work in such poems and in these poems only; the poem’s uniqueness too seems to arise from such intuition, an intuition that in itself combines all of poetry’s finest elements, the entirety of its art, art’s ability to convince, cajole, to confabulate and fake (in the sense of heightened artifice at work)—and what do we know of this “faking?” Just this, you can’t fake a true fake. Great poetry is not of a kind to be copied, unlike the poetry of lower levels. And it flows, fluid and easy, from the intuition of which we’ve spoken; that said, even great poetry requires editing; don’t think that any well-worked poem comes without the skilled application and reapplication of craft; execution and effort cooperate to cull of language a work of mastery; and we speak here of that profoundest point of communication; nothing lacking in quality, and certainly nothing commonplace, can fare the fires of this grand interlocution. One element of great poetry that cannot be emphasized enough is its mystery; the more the reader is left to wonder, the greater the impression left, even as memory’s sensation in symbol. Also, multiple meaning here rises as if from out the ether, and things connect, flowing together regardless of whether they normally carry anything in common. Enjambment is one method of creating multiple meaning, and as has previously been explained, it exists in much better poetry, although it appears to be more common only in recent works; it is rarely seen prior to the twentieth century, other than in a possibly incidental occurrence. Once more, the surprise and subtle shock especially attain their effect in a great work; one can find any number of conservative elements therein, but it is this surprise gained by expression that truly trumps the lesser poem; the poem’s elements act on the memory, on the mind, assaulting, as it were, the sensibilities and senses with something of the unexpected or unknown in grand form; the unexpected, the unnatural, the unknown—all of these rare qualities work their way to the fore, sometimes reaching the point of enigma, impressing on a mind unprepared for such heightened intrusion. The good and the great poem creates more interest in the mind of the reader, especially if that reader is a lover of literature; we desire poems that leave a grave black hole pulling at ones insides even in their forgetting.

Now, we have the easier task of describing the nature of mediocre and bad poetry; and since the commonplace is just that, it is encountered far more often and is more easily recognized. Mediocrity, in general, graces the world with a somewhat emaciated offering, one that in its speech offers a sort of malnutrition, a growling gut won of want. Although mediocre poems generally avoid cliché, and maybe even avoid triteness to a large degree, something of the commonplace remains; these poems are more easily followed, more readily identified, in terms more of the common read; the word “prosaic’” could be used in the place of these descriptions. Although such poems may be interesting in their subject or theme, they lack the craft, the concision, most of the higher traits of better works. There often rings something rote or routine in their telling; though they may express their subject well, it is the way that they tell it that is lacking, in craft, in mystery, in majesty and magic. It is as if the poet finds it either difficult or unnecessary to escape the common; he may even bask in it. Finally, relating the mediocre to our primary concern, the publishing of poetry, it is as if the mind of the mediocre is perhaps repulsed by good writing in the way that the mind of the good is repulsed by cliché, is turned sour by triteness, is maddened at unmediated meaninglessness, and is convulsed by the commonplace. The mediocre poet is a man of the middle ground, and as such is more common than the good and, of course, the great. No amount of pretention can pass by the surety that is the good and the great, slippery sly as the pretender tries to sidestep the necessary attributes that make up those higher zones. Yes, the mediocre, and now the bad.

First of all, the shock that bad poetry attempts to elicit is completely superficial, one could almost say unliterary; it has nothing in common with the effect of the well-crafted poem. One looks at the poorly written poem and asks oneself, why is it that this poem is not good, why is it that it is indeed bad? Isn’t this our prime concern when dealing with such works? Well, first of all, you’ll notice that bad poetry deals in a very common language, in fact a language that makes use of commonplaces, triteness, and cliché. Often the lines of such poems are arbitrarily composed, as if poorly imitating what it means to write in verse; the metaphors are generally generic or forced; little or no solid rhetoric can be found, or, if it be found, it is of little effect; one wonders at the bad writer’s choice of terms, and at their combination; their relations are either too apparent or nonexistent (arbitrary combinations of words abound); often the titles of such poor works are trite or even cliché; and this is to say nothing of the possibility of bad or confused grammar. And since we are speaking of bad and mediocre poetry, one final reflection on those poems I’ve evaluated: we can say of each of these works, they lack the brilliance, the dalliance and design, the grave calling and concision, the musculature of good and great poetry, and of good writing in general.

On the mental illness necessary to good poetry: monomania achieves its mastery in craft; megalomania, on the other hand, makes claims, which may or may not be true. But what, for instance, is a delusion of grandeur realized? Is it no longer delusion, merely grandeur?

As a sidenote here I must reflect on rhetoric. It is of the utmost importance to the well-written poem; I do not see how someone not versed in its use could accomplish anything beyond the mere of mediocrity. The arrangement, relation, repetition of words and tropes seem to me key in the lining of a worthwhile poem. Yes, rhetoric. Yet, it is quite ironic that poetry publishers often do not want this; many go as far as to discourage the use of “poetic language.” Bizarre, one would think; why then publish poetry at all? Oh my: publishers! Are there any knowledgeable enough, and beyond this, brave enough to recognize a master’s craft? Well, not so swift, dear writer.

The publishers we speak of here are those that foist the bad and the mediocre on the reading public, and one could say right away that one does not expect to find that which is good in a publication that holds so true to its promise of mediocrity and the horrible. The aesthetically mediocre mind does not suffer the “shock” and surprise, of which we’ve spoken, upon reading the mysteriously inimitable, the good, the great; instead, and as we’ve pointed out before when speaking of mediocrity, this mind appears to be repulsed by witnessing something outside its purview; it doubtless suffers, but its mode of suffering is merely, may we say, dyspeptic; it has encountered something it cannot by its own means digest; good writing, like a foreign food, is adjudged disgusting. They publish the dross that fits their mold; they judge by their “likes.” It is, as it were, more likely for an editor to publish a bad or mediocre poem that speaks to his sensibilities; the uncomfortable oddities that protrude from the better poem assault his senses in a different way, shearing him of surety, creeping him out of his comfort; with better poetry, he has entered a foreign territory, the land of the unexplainable that bears resemblance only to work of equal merit, and that resemblance more of kind than ultimate character. The editors’ problem is ultimately very simple—a lack of aesthetic taste, an inability to judge value (something they most likely don’t care to do anyway, even while they think they are doing so), the inability to rank the relative worth of the poem. The poor publisher cannot adjudge the good or great; he is a hack, choosing merely on the basis of what he is familiar with, his likes; the works he publishes likely resemble each other in terms of level and style, even in terms of theme, subject, final idea. This can often be garnered immediately upon seeing in the magazine’s outline a request for specific themes, a request in the character of fetishism. Such magazines often request poems themed around genres (for instance, horror, science-fiction, erotica), around medicine, ethnicity, and regional concerns; other magazines request a “shape” poetry, graphic or concrete (such poems often consisting of outright idiocy).

Now one asks, is this not their right? The magazine is after all their magazine; they can choose to publish as they will. Yes, all this is true, but such does little for our cause—namely, objectively valued work. So, it is my assertion that if one really cares, one must rail at the idiocy on display in these publications. They must be exposed for the evils they are, expositions of the un-beautiful. Sure, as one author has said, the world can use as many poets and poems as possible—but can we at least separate the space garbage from the supernova? That the poetry presses in general, with their litany of excessive requirements and their deciding methods of inclusion, amount to outlets of fetishism, nepotism, and outright idiocy, allowing no room for aesthetic advance, for artistic achievement, for good verse, and its cousin of poor repute, great verse, is established. Once again, and to be so short, the problem endemic to poetry publication lies in the editors’ inability to identify quality, that is to say, level, in the realm of his supposed expertise—more pointed, he is inept to the task, he lacks legitimate judgment in the area of aesthetics, and he therefore reverts to the likeness of his favorites, a superficial substitute for the evaluation of true quality. What we confront here is a case of mass-incompetence; here sit a group of people who consider themselves good poets and therefore good judges of poetry; now let’ say the former is the case, as it may be on occasion; this does not mean that the latter follows; in fact, I would argue that more often is the quality poet lacking in that judgment that finds itself capable of weighing the value of others’ poetry. Indeed, it may be the case that the two abilities develop exclusive of one another; there may even be good judges of poetry who themselves are not good poets. A good example of this exists in the popular realm of motion pictures: namely, Roger Ebert, who although he is not a skilled movie-maker, appears to own the ability to judge a film’s value. Even if you don’t agree with this example, I’m positive that there are others who find themselves in such a position. And I’m sure we could find the equivalent in the area of poetics; this type, this person, hypothetical though he may be in this writing, carries the distinction of being a rather poor poet but an expert in eye when the time to evaluate and edit arises. All this said, they’ll think my doctrine inane, me insane, and objective aesthetics of any authenticity, anathema. These outlets overseen by fools, bullies, and bullshitters hold not even standing room for anything authentically good. Such publishers of poetastry may attempt to threaten you over the internet, insult you with assiduity, but were they to dare your presence, believe it, they would cower like the creatures they are, hubristic hacks, effete troglodytes devoid of temerity, nerds of the netherworld.

Recently I read the bio of an old man poet who boasts one thousand publications of his poems in divers presses, some of them prestigious zines—if we can say such when speaking of poetry publication; so, I read the poem he proffered presently, and guess what? It was as middle-of-the-road as words get when placed in rows, mere mummery played with pomp. The man lacked talent. And this reminds me of another story. I recall that, in old-time Japan, there was a man who gained a reputation for his haiku writing; he was especially proud of this, because he wasn’t even a writer; in other words, he was a bona fide hack, and he knew it, though he managed to impress the populace with his mimetic works; yes, he was overjoyed at his con, and one might say, rightly so. To write the same thing one hundred ways—call it philosophy. But what is enough? The current zeitgeist within the world of poetry publication can only lead to continued mediocrity, if not worse, a mundanity attained by lax taste, always mild to touch.

After all be said, written and wrote, the poet, one could say, regardless of result and reception, gets what he deserves. To be curt, why would a sane man waste the breath that gives us life on poetry? Oh, you reply, but I am no sane man, I am a poet. These words, the want, the waste.

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