Poetry Is Crap

Excuse the hyperbole of the headline. A more nearly accurate representation of my view would be something like Most Poetry Is Crap, or Contemporary Poetry Is Crap, but as you can see those lack the same punch.


This is not a new opinion but one that is reinforced every time I am so foolish as to read any of the poetry offerings in The New Yorker, my favorite magazine. I give you an example from the current issue, titled “Eh?”:

Eh he said and she
dreamed eh. It was
like that between them.

It goes on a good bit after that, and I invite you to read the rest, if you have masochistic tendencies or this is your religious season for self-flagellation.

Curiosity led me to check out the poetry of another poet, Elizabeth Alexander, selected by Barack Obama to compose an occasional poem for his inauguration. Here’s the start of her poem titled “Blues”:

I am lazy, the laziest
girl in the world. I sleep during
the day when I want to, 'til
my face is creased and swollen,
'til my lips are dry and hot. I
eat as I please: cookies and milk
after lunch, butter and sour cream
on my baked potato...

I don’t know about you, but to me that does not say “I am ready to follow in the footsteps of Robert Frost.” It says, “Here are my FaceBook ramblings for the day.”

If I must have poetry, give me the kind I read in college lit classes. Give me Pope, Auden, Thomas.

Short of that, at least make it rhyme.