The poetry reading I briefly attended last night was no worse than the dinner preceding it, during which the guest poet, a college teacher, indicated that she had never wanted to teach anything more advanced than "precomposition" because that way "I'll never get snobby." Around then, sugarhigh! was thinking about getting extremely drunk.
A good-hearted graduate student, seated next to the poet, mentioned that she was writing about abandoned houses in American poetry, and that one of her interests was Ashbery. "Are there houses in Ashbery?" inquired our guest, unsnobbiness faintly dripping from her inflections. "How could you tell?"
Said visitor opened her reading with a brief poem called "Tired Blood." It was about tired blood. After the poem, she explained the poem to the audience. She explained why it was good and why she liked it. Then she read it again. It was at this juncture that the tragically sober sugarhigh! quietly departed the building and returned home, determined to listen to a lot of NIN in a fit of juvenile rage.
This is what sugarhigh! misses today: rage that seroconverts to joy in the bloodstream. Though it is not totally lost from the world: this morning en route to the bakery, I saw spraypainted carelessly on some abandoned wall, REAGAN'S DEAD! Like she just had to tell somebody, even though everybody knew.
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Quaint was the word for it. Poem's that were huggably soft... and squishy in just the right, wrong places! I stayed and did my homework till the end, like a good boy, but then realized I was becoming more involved with revising my Final's schedule than listening to the same poem being read for the third time. C'est la vie.
Posted by: Sean at June 12, 2004 11:33 AMOh, it wasn't that bad--she only re-read every *other* poem.
Given the major publications and prizes on her CV, it would appear my 19 year old undergrad never-read-poetry-before students aren't the only ones who think that poems which require no thought to understand are the best sort.
Posted by: NuclearBlithe at June 12, 2004 03:29 PMSounds like the poetry world: lame and lamer.
Posted by: cicero at June 12, 2004 05:47 PMIf you'll pardon the baseness of the simile, a good friend of mine once said "Poetry is like farts... you can pretty much stand your own, but someone else's...."
as for rage that hits the blood like sugar hits espresso, you might revisit the Afghan Whigs, particularly "Gentleman." That's what I am doing today, and it seems to be just the tonic.
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