Partisans of the Linguistic Junta,
Poetry takes many forms and there are essentially no rules. I’ve had a few run-ins with poets over the past few days and my own tastes were at odds with those I’ve just encountered.
In once instance, the poet began storing observations of encounters on scraps of paper or a cell phone before working them into a poem later on. This would have been art if it had not been rage or forced upon its readers. When in a time of high emotions, the poems were no use to anyone but the poet.
The poet grew in confidence and in determination to enforce words and verse upon readers. Finally, the readers, more than a year later, were given no choice but to read. They were laid out on tables and unavoidable, for me, the situation, a party, was bad enough. People expect certain stuff at these occasions, they want dire music; it’s the same every time. I could have changed this aspect of the evening but I would have ruined it for everyone. When music is concerned, for many, it’s not a matter of taste; it’s a need for the familiar. If I had gone for Monochrome Set, Talking Heads, early Ultravox, Helen Love, Bis and Belle & Sebastian rather than Mika, Robbie Williams and co. (I blanked the rest out) there would have been outrage. I would have played ‘In the Country’ by Cliff Richard, now, there’s a compromise.
I read the poems, in auld (ha!) Scots tongue to the best of my ability or patience but I felt they were nothing but orders and demands, mae ye this and mae ye that, I don’t want to be dictated to by a piece of art. I want to be questioned, I want to be made to imagine a scene. The poet stressed the need to keep the ancient Scottish language alive, I had little riposte, I did not care to shout over the dire disco, I think language should be allowed to develop, the necessary words will be dragged forward. The need to document translations is imperative for translation of ancient documents but I can hardly see these words making a comeback. I recently watched Who do you Think you Are? as David Mitchell traced his ancestors back to the Highlands and Islands; he was faced first hand with the Gaelic language and was told of how its use was dying out. I’m an extremist and I wondered why the poet in question didn’t just learn Scots Gaelic, that would be quite something, but it wouldn’t mean anything. It’d be amount to the same. I admire individuals for taking a stance, I failed to on this occasion, my quest to improve the music would have been an equally unwelcome crusade as that of the poet who pressed too hard. Art is there to be admired, it’s our choice to admire it, when the element of choice is withdrawn, it is no longer art. I ponder the cultural significance of the act, but it’s too early to pass judgement.
Another poet was too literal, the documentation of facts and feelings was prioritised instead of words and clever use of language. A diary might be more suitable, because these just become notes. A Twitter account or a blog might be more appropriate than the description of being a poet. The rules of poetry allow anything and if the poet wants to write, then no one can deny that right. In direct contrast to the first poet, these works weren't shared so willingly. Art might be best shared so that its cultural significance can be discovered, learned from and allowed to inspire.
In truth, poetry has to be written for the right reasons. Structures can be defined by the writer but there should be a structure; traditional or inventive. Poetry, unlike music, can be judged upon personal taste for what it is. In knowing, who the poet is and how it came to paper, perhaps my judgement is skewed, although, it can’t be said that I’ve passed judgement or carried out detailed analysis.
In once instance, the poet began storing observations of encounters on scraps of paper or a cell phone before working them into a poem later on. This would have been art if it had not been rage or forced upon its readers. When in a time of high emotions, the poems were no use to anyone but the poet.
The poet grew in confidence and in determination to enforce words and verse upon readers. Finally, the readers, more than a year later, were given no choice but to read. They were laid out on tables and unavoidable, for me, the situation, a party, was bad enough. People expect certain stuff at these occasions, they want dire music; it’s the same every time. I could have changed this aspect of the evening but I would have ruined it for everyone. When music is concerned, for many, it’s not a matter of taste; it’s a need for the familiar. If I had gone for Monochrome Set, Talking Heads, early Ultravox, Helen Love, Bis and Belle & Sebastian rather than Mika, Robbie Williams and co. (I blanked the rest out) there would have been outrage. I would have played ‘In the Country’ by Cliff Richard, now, there’s a compromise.
I read the poems, in auld (ha!) Scots tongue to the best of my ability or patience but I felt they were nothing but orders and demands, mae ye this and mae ye that, I don’t want to be dictated to by a piece of art. I want to be questioned, I want to be made to imagine a scene. The poet stressed the need to keep the ancient Scottish language alive, I had little riposte, I did not care to shout over the dire disco, I think language should be allowed to develop, the necessary words will be dragged forward. The need to document translations is imperative for translation of ancient documents but I can hardly see these words making a comeback. I recently watched Who do you Think you Are? as David Mitchell traced his ancestors back to the Highlands and Islands; he was faced first hand with the Gaelic language and was told of how its use was dying out. I’m an extremist and I wondered why the poet in question didn’t just learn Scots Gaelic, that would be quite something, but it wouldn’t mean anything. It’d be amount to the same. I admire individuals for taking a stance, I failed to on this occasion, my quest to improve the music would have been an equally unwelcome crusade as that of the poet who pressed too hard. Art is there to be admired, it’s our choice to admire it, when the element of choice is withdrawn, it is no longer art. I ponder the cultural significance of the act, but it’s too early to pass judgement.
Another poet was too literal, the documentation of facts and feelings was prioritised instead of words and clever use of language. A diary might be more suitable, because these just become notes. A Twitter account or a blog might be more appropriate than the description of being a poet. The rules of poetry allow anything and if the poet wants to write, then no one can deny that right. In direct contrast to the first poet, these works weren't shared so willingly. Art might be best shared so that its cultural significance can be discovered, learned from and allowed to inspire.
In truth, poetry has to be written for the right reasons. Structures can be defined by the writer but there should be a structure; traditional or inventive. Poetry, unlike music, can be judged upon personal taste for what it is. In knowing, who the poet is and how it came to paper, perhaps my judgement is skewed, although, it can’t be said that I’ve passed judgement or carried out detailed analysis.
posted by Leif at 6:33 PM
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