poet of the wack
The idea of poet of the wack is to feature those poets who have done most to help contemporary poetry suck as much as it does.
And to gratuitously take the piss.
Anyhow, in the interests of fairness (and 'cos I recently got hold of some of my old notebooks), I thought I'd subject myself to the full treatment first.
You may want to look away
#1 Matt Dalby
When I started writing I was mainly doing short stories, but couldn't hold a plot in a bucket, so I needed some way to compress the form and dispense with narrative. Although I would have argued otherwise, the solution I came up with began to turn into poetry, and some of it was very bad - some though was good, which encouraged me to continue.
However Peter Samson of some publishing house or other advised me in a rejection letter to read more poetry. This was possibly the worst advice I have ever been given, as it led to me picking up the romantics, studying the formal aspects of traditional poetry and writing three years worth of the shittiest poetry I've ever put my name to.
Here's a particularly glorious example - don't ask me who it's about or what it means... I don't know, and I don't think I ever did.
I won't be afraid of angels any more
though the gates they guard
are as cold as scattered
ash and they turn
sharp wings against me.
Their light is blind
to beauty, admiring
only itself.
Your eyes know this,
and still you can speak the truth.
All I can say is I was clearly in love (unrequited obviously), had recently read Herbert, and as an atheist had no reason to be talking about angels anyway. This poem was unpublished so it's a bit of a soft target.
There's no such defence for the next piece, which was my favourite for ages, and even now it...
Even now it goes on too long, is overwritten and obvious, and has a pretentious coda in the last two lines. Remember that - pretentious codas in the last two or so lines are a common feature of bad poetry - as though the poet is so much cleverer than us and has to explain their work.
On the upside it only took two tries to give this a title - at first I was going to call it ARE YOU JEALOUS? - in the end I settled for...
FIFTEEN
Memories, catalogues, shelves of ornaments,
propriety, neighbours, the tick of years
blue with tears and the passing, lawns
mowed. Your daughter's with a man.
She holds his hand but he doesn't hold
it back, walking next to the sap
and glow of her legs. You're scared. A summer
day and a summers evening. Sunshine.
A lick of dust lifts and curls
from the pavement, scatters. Your mind won't
stray. Loud thoughts repeat, beaten out
by the sky like the gong of sun resonating
through you to senseless howls. Nothing
the same; china broken and patched
over years, different blue, fuzzy
designs, twists in the border, fine
white crescent chips. She seems
so young, and he abrasive, dangerous.
A photo faded to brown; in a dark
kitchen with your baby, you were the one.
Note the short sentences building up tension. And the way I suddenly go off on one about the china, which was metaphorical anyway. And what the fuck is 'patched' china when it's at home? I also like the neat alliteration of 'thoughts repeat, beaten out'. 'senseless howls' indeed.
I may come back to this - there's a treasure-trove of shite to dip into, and it may need a page to itself.
Coming soon - Ted Hughes (especially the later, crackpot, poems)
And to gratuitously take the piss.
Anyhow, in the interests of fairness (and 'cos I recently got hold of some of my old notebooks), I thought I'd subject myself to the full treatment first.
You may want to look away
#1 Matt Dalby
When I started writing I was mainly doing short stories, but couldn't hold a plot in a bucket, so I needed some way to compress the form and dispense with narrative. Although I would have argued otherwise, the solution I came up with began to turn into poetry, and some of it was very bad - some though was good, which encouraged me to continue.
However Peter Samson of some publishing house or other advised me in a rejection letter to read more poetry. This was possibly the worst advice I have ever been given, as it led to me picking up the romantics, studying the formal aspects of traditional poetry and writing three years worth of the shittiest poetry I've ever put my name to.
Here's a particularly glorious example - don't ask me who it's about or what it means... I don't know, and I don't think I ever did.
I won't be afraid of angels any more
though the gates they guard
are as cold as scattered
ash and they turn
sharp wings against me.
Their light is blind
to beauty, admiring
only itself.
Your eyes know this,
and still you can speak the truth.
All I can say is I was clearly in love (unrequited obviously), had recently read Herbert, and as an atheist had no reason to be talking about angels anyway. This poem was unpublished so it's a bit of a soft target.
There's no such defence for the next piece, which was my favourite for ages, and even now it...
Even now it goes on too long, is overwritten and obvious, and has a pretentious coda in the last two lines. Remember that - pretentious codas in the last two or so lines are a common feature of bad poetry - as though the poet is so much cleverer than us and has to explain their work.
On the upside it only took two tries to give this a title - at first I was going to call it ARE YOU JEALOUS? - in the end I settled for...
FIFTEEN
Memories, catalogues, shelves of ornaments,
propriety, neighbours, the tick of years
blue with tears and the passing, lawns
mowed. Your daughter's with a man.
She holds his hand but he doesn't hold
it back, walking next to the sap
and glow of her legs. You're scared. A summer
day and a summers evening. Sunshine.
A lick of dust lifts and curls
from the pavement, scatters. Your mind won't
stray. Loud thoughts repeat, beaten out
by the sky like the gong of sun resonating
through you to senseless howls. Nothing
the same; china broken and patched
over years, different blue, fuzzy
designs, twists in the border, fine
white crescent chips. She seems
so young, and he abrasive, dangerous.
A photo faded to brown; in a dark
kitchen with your baby, you were the one.
Note the short sentences building up tension. And the way I suddenly go off on one about the china, which was metaphorical anyway. And what the fuck is 'patched' china when it's at home? I also like the neat alliteration of 'thoughts repeat, beaten out'. 'senseless howls' indeed.
I may come back to this - there's a treasure-trove of shite to dip into, and it may need a page to itself.
Coming soon - Ted Hughes (especially the later, crackpot, poems)
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