* It was standing (and floor-sitting) room only for last night's Paul Muldoon reading at Suffolk University here in downtown Boston. They have a beautiful but under-sized facility in their unassuming library building for such events, and the room's capacity could have been awkward or frustrating — Muldoon, though, holds a master's degree in disarmament. With the mic hooked to his collar and his birds-nest of dark gray nettled hair, he wandered from the podium at will, leaning resignedly against the wall to read (striking a figure like a mis-shapen Donald Sutherland biting the apple in Animal House) and chattering with the audience that literally surrounded him. He even through a few finger guns out there, to my great amusement. He read the poem 'Anseo', which I enjoyed quite a bit, along with several light comic 'near-nonsense' pieces. It was the most entertaining readings I've attended in ages, and a much needed evening of relief from what has been a difficult week.
Muldoon has a great sense of comedic control and purpose, which is its own special talent in either verse or prose. Even in his more sombre-themed work, there is a slight absurdist tension in the end-rhymes or the form, or sometimes in an element as imperceptibly constructed as the poem's tone. It's like a ginger rub on meat — a tartness that can be sickening if overdone, but, balanced just right, enhances the other flavors.
* My beautiful friends, Travis Nichols at Harriet wants to know: is this the end? Of poetry, mind you, not le existence. The NEA reports, apparently, 'In 2008, just 8.3 percent of adults had read any poetry in the preceding 12 months . . . . That figure was 12.1 percent in 2002, and in 1992, it was 17.1 percent, meaning the number of people reading poetry has decreased by approximately half over the past 16 years.' Not a shock, not to me at least. In a small but telling sample, most interns at Godine are poetry morons (as one intern put it); of course, it isn't necessarily their fault — they've never been taught contemporary poetry; some not at all, some without any real intellectual vigour.
Nichols asks, 'Is it because contemporary poetry is exceptionally bad? Is it because advocacy organizations aren't doing their jobs? Is it because critics aren't doing theirs? Is it because the public just doesn't get it? Is it because teachers haven't read their Kenneth Koch?' He does not, however, ask the question that I feel strongly is at the heart of this trend: are today's teachers teaching poetry? Why do students read 1/10th the amount of poetry than they do prose? Why do they read so little contemporary poetry? Our interns ( rather horrifyingly, and not to pick on them but it's most on my mind) come from many different schools and regions, and often have never even read Famous Seamus, or Ashbery, or Collins, never mind the likes of Geoffrey Hill.
Why aren't we reading poetry today? Well, first: people are unaccustomed to poetry; they aren't taught enough poetry in school to feel comfortable grappling with it on their own. Second, and more importantly I think, it's ok to specifically not read poetry, to ignore it, to flat-out say 'I don't get it' or 'I'm not a poetry person', regardless of how 'literary' the person claims to otherwise be. It's flagrant ignorance, petulant stupidity — it's ignorance or laziness masked as preference, and it continues to be acceptable, even increasingly so.
* The Beautiful Girl and I boarded the B-Line of the MBTA today as we do each morning. We're far enough out on the line that seats are readily available and everyone boards the front door of the train — at busier stops they open all the doors, and monthly pas holders can enter through the rear (I've even penned an r&b lyric based on the morning T announcements: 'cash fairs in the front, baby; passes in the rear — nuh-nah, nuh-nah'). We sat in the middle of the train, between an older woman with a cold and a bald MBTA official who was chatting with two other riders. I was tired, she was tired. We contemplated another week in the books.
When we pulled into Washington Street, the first really busy stop, many people entered through the rear (nuh-nah, nuh-nah) as usual, following the driver's instructions to do so if you have a monthly pass. The T official got up, as we expected, but then so did the two other people in jeans and sweatshirts — who were both apparently undercover MBTA police, complete with Die Hard-esq badass badge-necklaces! The three then began inspecting people's Charlie Cards and tickets who boarded in the rear (nuh-nah, nuh-nah). One guy was busted, poor sad case, for a $15 appealable ticket, and tried to argue his way out of it. Which, as anyone in Mass will tell you, is a really excellent idea: nothing gets you on a cop's good side like arguing a citation. There is no possible way the T is making its money back on $15 citations while paying for two cops and an MBTA employee. Still, a word of warning: you better watch out, bad boys; Hill Street Blues: MBTA is live. Nuh-nah, nuh-nah.
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