But I actually liked parts of this one. It's pretty obvious to me that it's impossible for a poem to get Grecian Urn famous these days. It's also likely that certain classic poems wouldn't see the light of day in the modern paradigm of journals and creative writing departments and so on.
I'm not really sure how poems got famous in the past -- if Beckett on Johnson is anything to go by, poems were published and everyone read them to seem cultured, and then they got talked about at dinner parties, and then, sometimes, trickled down to the attention of those who might actually appreciate the beauty. These days the vast majority of poems die in the unenviable womb of the low-hundreds circulation poetry mag, or the blog read by mom, dad and your old teacher.
So it's all weird.
I like to write poetry and have competed in poetry slams but I'll be honest. I have never heard of Christian Wiman before this article. I have heard of poetry the magazine but not of its editor itself. Hell, I don't even remember if I have ever passed by one of Wiman's books at a Barnes and Noble or an independent book store. Getting poetry truly out there is a weird thing indeed. I remember a friend from the poetry slam scene saying, "A lot of people that are good at slam think they're famous sometimes but they are really not. They are only poetry famous. If you took them to a bunch of random people on the street, no one would know who they are." In these modern times, there is just so much information out there that's it hard to process. Things get lost in the shuffle. The main question though I guess is how does poetry breakout to the masses? So many poetry scenes are different from one another. I hang out with people in a slam scene and other people from an open mic scene that aren't slammers and it's totally different what their taste in poetry is but one thing they have in common is I'm not too sure they would to be keen of the MFA scene where a classical style is appreciated. I mean there are some people that do enjoy classics but there are a lot of others that are looking for something gritty or something that tries to explain what's going on with racial relations in America or something like that.
Can attest. I was a pretty big fan of poetry in college and for a while after. I did not have an appreciation for the slam scene. That said, a lot of poets tend to get their name out there through awards, critic reviews, and word of mouth. Book swaps were also a pretty common thing for us too.
Where are you from and what was your poetry scene like?
Oh. I'd assume the poetry scene back then wasn't too different from other places. There were bars with slam poets, coffee shops full of artsy fartsy people, people of all types and ages participating. I didn't stick around the scene long myself actually, as there were a lot of people with very large personalities (in my opinion, often unearned) and I found I could get my fix just by reading and avoid the egos.
Well these days in the poetry scenes I'm in, the personalities aren't as large as I'm not in new york city. There is more of a community feel these days but sometimes it feels like there isn't enough criticism sometimes unless you ask for it. New York City has some more larger personalities though.
Egos seem to be everywhere. I'm starting to think it's manners as much as humility and openness that helps keep them in check. As for criticism, tell people to be open. Tell people to be brutal, if need be. Sometimes the best thing you can do to change, is let yourself get hurt a little bit. Do you guys ever do writing exercises? Not only do they help you guys become better writers, they also help you become better critics and more receptive to criticism.
Yeah no one can read the Atlantic anymore. I did like "From a Window" pretty well: In any truth but the truth of grieving, I saw a tree inside a tree Rise kaleidoscopically As if the leaves had livelier ghosts. I pressed my face as close To the pane as I could get To watch that fitful, fluent spirit That seemed a single being undefined Or countless beings of one mind Haul its strange cohesion Beyond the limits of my vision Over the house heavenwards. Of course I knew those leaves were birds. Of course that old tree stood Exactly as it had and would (But why should it seem fuller now?) And though a man’s mind might endow Even a tree with some excess Of life to which a man seems witness, That life is not the life of men. And that is where the joy came in. Of course, hubski still doesn't have intelligent formatting. But hey.Incurable and unbelieving