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          Some poets have a great deal to say, and they say it with eloquence. The problem then becomes a matter of exposure. How can a poet promote himself without turning off his readers with his self-promotion? How can he assertively promote himself without seeming self-promoting while at the same time remaining honest? For instance, a poet could easily have a friend start up a press and run a contest that will publish him and give him some impressive sounding award that has no real value whatsoever, given that it was rigged, and then his friend could nominate him for a Pushcart — something any publisher or press can do. Besides being dishonest, such tactics do nothing to lend credibility to small presses.
          Struggling poets watching a celebrity poet “make it” cannot help but wonder if a poet’s self-promotion is a diligent, matter-of-fact alternative to publishing house non-promotion, or if all the applause is the just reward for an aggressively manipulative, conniving, super-inflated ego.
          It makes sense for the poet to devise a marketing plan for his poetry career. The problem is that the poets who excel at self-promotion are often inferior poets.
          And then there is the poet who would prefer that readers lust after his book jacket glamour photo than his exquisite verses, who is more eager for flattering blurbs than good poems.
          It is difficult for good poets who happen to be shy and non-aggressive to watch self-promoters who obviously covet publication in designer label journals, prostitute themselves (figuratively, of course) as a form of solicitation, then snub their nose at anyone lacking this elitist validation they so self-righteously abhor. What purest poet has not joked about the self-promoter pursuing an adoring entourage of dilettantes that will fall prostrate before him? Well known is the poetaster less interested in creating great art than in one-night stands with comrades of the conference.
          This is difficult for most struggling poets to admit. Why bite the hand that serves the d’oeuvres?

          It may seen unfair to distinguish between the true poet and the poetaster. As I tell my students with genuine passion, at least we’re writing, at least we’re trying. We’re all just groping in the dark, making our way toward satisfying self-expression. Poetry is, always, even for the great, an apprenticeship.
          But should poetry be a collaborative effort?
          Perhaps the postmodernists are right in claiming that a poem has no creator, that any poem is simply text randomly constructed from given words governed by rules and conventions of collective language that could have been written by anyone, and therefore no poet has a just claim to the title of author. Not to mention the slash and burn that goes on in workshops.
          Many of us worry about such claims. There is nothing wrong with outside stimulus or ongoing education, but what happens if the poet never learns to tap his own imagination for topics to write about, if he forever needs another textbook, how-to manual, class, writers group, or other external resource to do his generative thinking for him? Should teachers not teach the poet to be his own best editor? Why then does he need yet another workshop to help him through the writing process, a lifelong mentor to point out his weaknesses and strengths, an editor to, well, edit his poems? Are his poems his, or are they collaborations? Is what we call a writing community really group codependency?
          Teachers work hard to validate students’ efforts, but could this eternal head-patting prevent poets from growing up? Is there no great poetry in part because we have no faith in the poet’s ability to be self-sufficient?
          It is disconcerting to ask oneself if ones favorite poet truly wants to write poetry that delves into humanity’s deepest dimensions, that moves, enlightens, excavates the hero, elevates culture, saves the soul with the exquisite presence of its truth, or if he simply wants mommy to pat his head and tape his ditty to the fridge. It would be interesting to ask him if he would prefer being lauded for a book of poems he knows are not that good, or writing a great book of poems that will be appreciated by an educated, attentive few, and if he would prefer being a great poet for a posterity that will likely be aborted by world holocaust, or a mediocre celebrity poet now.

          What would a world welcoming great poetry even look like? Could we settle for a highly educated, deeply appreciative poetry subculture? What would developing that involve?
          The notion of organic poetry should be taken quite literally in the broadest sense. Biologists claim that when a species ceases to evolve, it becomes extinct. Perhaps the extinction of great poetry is a sign that the soul has ceased to evolve.
          Then again, perhaps a few incubating great poets will suddenly take a quantum leap of creative emergence, dragging us all — apprentices, poetasters, even kicking and screaming postmodernists — into their future.