Is there any hope for prosody?
 

https://themillions.com/2019/03/the-...tzpyw-0RSpCxyA

Please forgive one embarrassing typo in the article.

Is there any hope for prosody?
 

Sam,

My many thanks for this;
it made me reminisce.

So, "trimester" for "trimeter?"

Ted

Now that I'm back to counting syllables and scanning for elisions in Latin (my first such war earned me an M.A. in Psychology on the English language syllable counts of an otherwise loovely, loovely psychological test of sentence completions to standard stubs), I found this hilarious, especially the first fower (4) paragraphs.

Somewhere near the beginning of each of my classes and workshops, I always mention that there are no poetry (or meter) police.

My students have always been relieved and amused.

Now you’ve ruined that, Sam.

I just ordered Saintsbury's Historical Manual of English Prosody for my Kindle. It was free. This probably says something about the marketplace for books on prosody.

This is about as serious a discussion of prosody as we're likely to get these days: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2...ems-to-america

I've often said that it's no real chore to take a page of IRS instructions and convert it into blank verse.

In my admittedly jaundiced view, what is promoted as “poetry” at present (and for quite a while), in most locations in America are examples of what is pretty clearly writing with a political aim - which might be laudable - without much, if any, discoverable desire to succeed as Art. That, or semi-personal outbursts - again, possibly laudable - that exhibit little management or reflection. That’s been true even of some of my own unstructured (usually early) things. What is generally found even in The New Yorker as “poetry” is diffuse and even rambling, even by big names like “O. Nuts”. Mostly they seem intended to awe or overwhelm the consumer by their “message”, instead of pleasuring the reader with anything but train wrecks of images. Like early twentieth century German Abstract Expressionism, they aspire to the haute brutalite of ugliness. And this is art? There was (is) a movement in visual art a few decades ago where positively bizarre structures of cans, tires, wire and/or dog feathers were promoted as meaningful and the only respectable creations. Harmony, humanity, charm. - uh uh. If it was crap, it was beautiful. “Poetry” now in some larger circulation magazines is too often fourth rate banner waving by people with second agendas that aren’t well hidden, one unconscious part of which is self hatred that makes many readers turn away from it or despise it. It is a convenient magazine layout block, like an advertisement. Worse, it’s there to have the reader turn to the nearby advertisements for relief. That’s the economics of Big Print. The “poetry editors” are unspeakable. Of course, if I submit to The New Yorker, I put on a surgical mask and send in something kinda weird. But so far it hasn’t been weird enough. Obviously, I’m wrong. Ox magazini, ox dei.

I digress (as usual), but Allen, this essay will stomp hard on that dream of getting published in the New Yorker:

http://www.themontrealreview.com/200...hort-Story.php

The main bit:

Granted, that's for short stories, but I assume the situation with regard to the New Yorker's poetry slush pile makes the chances of getting into Poetry seem like a sure thing by comparison. (Full disclosure: I've long since given up on that, too.)

Why would a poet have to "sample" Trump's blather or a letter from Carrie Kinsey to Theodore Roosevelt? The transcripts of the so-called speeches and the original letter are available online.

https://washingtonmonthly.com/magazi...ntury-slavery/

http://www.benningtonreview.org/mccrae/

Julie, as I've said before, you are always a pleasure to think with.