Nick, you speak of poetry as if it were a suit of clothes one can put on or take off at will. That is not my experience as a poet at all. Of course, time can seem to be an element because, unfortunately, in modern society, all time is considered money. Yet, poetry, for me, has never been a matter of choice, of job choice—it is more a state of being; and I am in that state whether I am working or playing or putting pen to paper or not. The question of poetry’s death, as you discuss it, seems more a matter of whether poetry reading has died. But the writing of poetry, of true poetry, has always been an inescapable force of nature, a stern directive from the unconscious, and treating it like a faucet that can be turned on or off at one’s convenience, according to the contingencies of life, seems to me to be what might contribute to its real death by cheapening it to the point where everyone can and should do it periodically. Oh, I know, people should do whatever they please, and call themselves by whatever title they like—but I think it’s undeniable that there is a glut of poetry being produced now, and I think that is mostly due to this attitude that it is something cursory, something you can pick up or drop as your schedule dictates, rather than as a imperative that comes from somewhere deeper than any program taught in schools, any fantasies of huge paychecks or prizes or accolades—all of which are justifications which lie outside rather than inside poetry. Poetry is not a means to an end, it is the end and the means in itself. And if more so-called poets realized that its rewards were all in the process and not in the product, then many of them would quit and poetry might be the healthier for it—hidden or not.
Nemo
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