‘And so modern poetry has followed the example set by the poets - it has become self-absorbed and formless, and so, incapable of providing a conduit of meaningful communication.’— Matt Bynum
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I don’t like poems,
or jeroboams.
Now I’ve said it.
Now you’ve read it.
I try hard to understand modern poetry. Really hard. I attend a writers’ group every week, and for years I sat numbly at poetry readings feigning attentiveness, all the while presuming there was something wrong with me. I’ve even had a puff of the green stuff, attempting to shift my brain activity from its preoccupation with the left hemisphere to the more aesthetic lobe on the right side. All in vain. I remain as mystified now as I did way back in high school when my English teachers read us Shakespeare.
Let’s be honest. Modern poetry is a jumble of unrelated words and meanings ‘incapable of providing a conduit of meaningful communication.’
Take for example, the first stanza of ‘Morning Song’ by Sylvia Plath:
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
When love got me going, it never had anything to do with a fat gold watch. I’ve never even owned a gold watch, fat or thin. Lots of $10 cheapies, but. In any case, what in the world do fat gold watches have to do with midwives slapping footsoles? What the hell is a bald cry, and what does any of it have to do with the elements? I know what an ‘element’ is - I have a PhD in chemistry – and it has nothing to do with a bald cry! The poor woman, Sylvia Plath. No wonder she committed suicide. Her pind was all over the mlace.
And look at this clanger from the Beat Generation, titled ‘Obsequity’:
Red asteroids assault the evergrowing tangents slithering noiselike out of frostbitten tongues.
Does anybody know what ‘obsequity’ actually means? I have no idea so I googled the word and in response got ‘Did you mean: obloquy?’ I must have dozed off during those English classes in high school dealing with obtuse vocabulary, so I googled ‘obloquy’, and found the definition: ‘a strongly condemnatory utterance; abusive language aimed at a person or thing’: just what I am doing here with this piece of writing!
The thing is, I do actually enjoy poetry, real poetry that is. You know, the stuff that rhymes and makes sense. Like in the 60s as a kid, I used to sing along with the ‘Happy Little Vegemite Song’:
We are happy little Vegemites as bright as bright can be,
We all enjoy our Vegemite for breakfast, lunch and tea,
Our mummy says we're growing stronger every single week,
Because we love our Vegemite,
We all adore our Vegemite,
It puts a rose in every cheek!
In the 70s while at university, I would gather together with other like-minded poetry lovers to listen to more sophisticated poems, such as the classic tale, ‘The Ballad of Eskimo Nell’, one verse of which went something like:
She seated herself on a table top,
Where someone had left a glass.
With a twitch of her tits, she crushed it to bits
Between the cheeks of her ass.
Now that’s an exquisite piece of writing; full of verve, stirring imagery and relevance in the modern world!
And for those of us who lived in the momentous times of the 60s and 70s, who could forget that other classic tale concerning ‘The Good Ship Venus’ and its first mate, Arthur;
The first mate’s name was Arthur,
Boy was he a farter.
When the wind wouldn’t blow, the ship wouldn’t go,
They got Arthur, the farter, to start 'er.
or the classic limerick set in the Garden of Eden:
In the garden of Eden lay Adam,
Complacently stroking his madam.
And great was his mirth,
For on all of the earth,
There were only two balls and he had 'em.
My year-seven English teacher knew a thing or two about verse and real poetry. She predicted that one day I would shine as a jingle writer, a specialised area of poetry not given its just recognition as a highly developed art-form. I complete this posting with one of my very own - a poem destined to become a classic of the genre - in memory to that wonderfully perceptive woman:
The Jingle Writer
The jingle writer is a blighter,
He makes up all these rhymes.
He takes a word nobody’s heard,
Then repeats it countless times.
The jingle writer is a fighter,
He competes with every poet.
They say his verse is rather terse,
“Poetry? He wouldn’t know it.”
The jingle writer is a skiter,
He laughs at all those snobs.
“My poems rhyme, all the time,
“While yours ain’t worth two bob.”
All said and done, he had some fun,
The jingle writer beckons,
To poets that write, such dribble and trite,
“You’re up yourselves,” he reckons!
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Postscript
The author of this post is currently seeking medical attention for a condition associated with the hemispheres of his brain, and thus cannot take part in any dialogue of import. Current medical opinion is split as to whether complete rest or large doses of Anthony Robbins’ videos would be of benefit.
He wishes to advise those who sent him abusive responses, that although he is not a violent man by nature, when he has fully recovered he intends to come out of your TV screens and rip your bloody arms off.
No further correspondence will be entered into.
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