Decline of American Poetry #Wordsmatter #NationalPoetryMonth


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Decline of American Poetry

There is a great decline in American verse
I call it suicide by vandalism
Of modern poets, poets who
Upon obtaining MFAs, talk to each other

In poetry without a soul
Now I’m not one to flag ambition
But I can spot a poser easily enough
They believe for one, that

There verse is special, beyond criticism
They write without evidence
Of the comprehension of an audience
Their writing has no currency

When read even four years later
I would not call it increased professionalism
More like, uneventful snobbery
Modern poetry has no following

Sceptical and overwrought I turn the page
There is no lyricism left
So yes, I am somewhat dismissive
Of second rate American poets

I prefer to look elsewhere
Poets are injured, buried beneath grievance
In a history that they do not even understand
It’s not to say that I don’t respect them

But the movement lacks leadership, inspiration
Poetry yes nourishes and enlivens
But not in the current form, does it
Share a narrative with a congregation of the brightest

It has no willingness to create beauty anymore
It just cannot stop speaking
Divorced from reality, activism, revolution
I don’t read poetry, to listen to

Second-rate spoken word
I’m not sure about you, or by whose authority
I’ve read exactly enough proof of decaying form
To recognize imposters nine times out of ten

Our system that awards fame is corrupt
Our best poets are not names I’m interested in
They aren’t authentic voices I’d cherish
Maybe the editors and critics are to blame?

I’d seriously challenge the categories of art
Modern poetry killed the genre
And I don’t pretend not to see the signs
The quality of poetry reflects a problem of literacy

A declining soul and strength of spirit
In the American psyche, that has been
A long time coming, fame is being distorted
With a lot of bad verse, it’s nonsense if you ask me.

Gamification of a poet’s Portfolio


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Gamification of a poet’s Portfolio

New level, new rules, you’d say
Relaxed in your anxiety and dread
I became used to how you
Would talk to yourself on airplanes
The turbulence of the ambitious
I suppose, I never had
That kind of luxury
You planned and reinvented yourself
You became a kind of
Magical realism of your own life
Skilled at indifference, sharp to criticize
New level, new rules, you’d repeat
Trying to find a polite way to adapt
To the predicament of not being famous
We’re all fiction, dialogue, performance
I suppose, but to adapt to an audience
To be a master of exposition
To fake it till you make it
Is not building a foundation
It’s being in the wrong empire.