THE END OF AN ERA
Poetry died on May 14th.
Stanley Kunitz, previous poet laureate of the USA, passed away at age 100.
Kunitz was one of the only real poets left. And by real poets I mean people that use language in order to move, evoke, express, generally bring about an experience in their readership. This man didn't toss 80 words on a page and read it to a room of drugged-up hipster fuckwits, he crafted POEMS and did a damn fine job of it.
Poetry is dead. You know it and I know it. No one cares about it, no one likes it, because the people that call themselves poets today spend more time trying to outsmart themselves and layer in six thousand "meanings" into every line break than they do just fucking WRITING.
Kunitz was an artist. He's left his mark on the world. I hope against all reason that one day what has come to be called poetry will be cast aside as asinine and the true artform will be revived - perhaps by turning to the works of people like him.
What follows is by no means his best work (and I urge you to track down others) but I tend to like this one, personally. And its my journal. So nyah.
Halley's Comet
Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there'd be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground's edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
"Repent, ye sinners!" he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I'd share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family's asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street-
that's where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I'm the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.
Stanley Kunitz
Stanley Kunitz, previous poet laureate of the USA, passed away at age 100.
Kunitz was one of the only real poets left. And by real poets I mean people that use language in order to move, evoke, express, generally bring about an experience in their readership. This man didn't toss 80 words on a page and read it to a room of drugged-up hipster fuckwits, he crafted POEMS and did a damn fine job of it.
Poetry is dead. You know it and I know it. No one cares about it, no one likes it, because the people that call themselves poets today spend more time trying to outsmart themselves and layer in six thousand "meanings" into every line break than they do just fucking WRITING.
Kunitz was an artist. He's left his mark on the world. I hope against all reason that one day what has come to be called poetry will be cast aside as asinine and the true artform will be revived - perhaps by turning to the works of people like him.
What follows is by no means his best work (and I urge you to track down others) but I tend to like this one, personally. And its my journal. So nyah.
Halley's Comet
Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there'd be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground's edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
"Repent, ye sinners!" he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I'd share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family's asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street-
that's where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I'm the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.
Stanley Kunitz