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The Inaugural Post of “Death to Poetry”
Dec. 14th, 2006 08:29 amI suppose I should explain the name of this journal before actually starting it. As a matter of fact, that would make a good start.
Poetry, at one time, was an art form. It took true talent to craft a flower of words: a small bit of verse that that was so full of depth and meaning, it exploded from the page with passion and imagery well beyond its size.
Poetry, at one time, was a dying art form. There were still a few masters and they were revered, but no one had the time to truly appreciate the skill involved. Why take the time to find an artist, when amateurs are a dime a dozen?
Poetry, at this time, is a dead art form. While there are still masters of the craft in existence, they are overwhelmed by the legions of angst ridden, no-talent hacks that abound. Few appreciate that a poem is not something you write, but something to lovingly nurture into a beautiful bloom of magnificence. Everyone can write poetry, few can craft it.
I do not blame the Internet for Poetry’s demise. While it may have contributed to the death, the Internet only helped put the last few nails in an almost complete coffin. The world was already to the point that anyone who could put pen to paper, had half a wit and were full of tumultuous emotions thought they were poets.
Craft became pointless in poetry. “It’s too hard to put what I feel into a rhyme scheme, they’d whine. ”Emotions shouldn’t be bound by verse!” Poetry became nothing but prose with bad punctuation. Fix the punctuation, and you just have a bunch of paragraphs from a bad romance novel.
Even the poet laureate of the good old USA has fallen to this abomination of Poetry. Reading his material (I can not bare to even remotely consider calling it “work”) is what finally sent me over the edge. The Abomination should die, so that Poetry can live. One day, I wish to honestly be able to udder the phrase “Poetry is dead. Long live Poetry!”
Death to Poetry
Poetry, at one time, was an art form. It took true talent to craft a flower of words: a small bit of verse that that was so full of depth and meaning, it exploded from the page with passion and imagery well beyond its size.
Poetry, at one time, was a dying art form. There were still a few masters and they were revered, but no one had the time to truly appreciate the skill involved. Why take the time to find an artist, when amateurs are a dime a dozen?
Poetry, at this time, is a dead art form. While there are still masters of the craft in existence, they are overwhelmed by the legions of angst ridden, no-talent hacks that abound. Few appreciate that a poem is not something you write, but something to lovingly nurture into a beautiful bloom of magnificence. Everyone can write poetry, few can craft it.
I do not blame the Internet for Poetry’s demise. While it may have contributed to the death, the Internet only helped put the last few nails in an almost complete coffin. The world was already to the point that anyone who could put pen to paper, had half a wit and were full of tumultuous emotions thought they were poets.
Craft became pointless in poetry. “It’s too hard to put what I feel into a rhyme scheme, they’d whine. ”Emotions shouldn’t be bound by verse!” Poetry became nothing but prose with bad punctuation. Fix the punctuation, and you just have a bunch of paragraphs from a bad romance novel.
Even the poet laureate of the good old USA has fallen to this abomination of Poetry. Reading his material (I can not bare to even remotely consider calling it “work”) is what finally sent me over the edge. The Abomination should die, so that Poetry can live. One day, I wish to honestly be able to udder the phrase “Poetry is dead. Long live Poetry!”
Death to Poetry
