The Poetic Inquisition

There are some poets today that have come to believe that the only poetry is the poetry that they write. Many of the past poetic conventions are out, and those that still use them, in whatever form, are not poets.

Today, I was visited by a former student, one who is reticent to style himself a poet. Yet, after reading his poetry, poetry that uses words that perch on the edge of a knife sometimes, but are always pregnant with meaning, I assured him that he is indeed a poet, and one that is on the way to becoming a impressive poet. I wish him luck in that respect, and am anxiously looking forward to monitoring his progress, for his poetry is a true delight to read. It has some similarities to my use of words, but that similarity does not make him a good poet, just a comfortable read. He has a "feel" for words, a unique use of words that create both sound and meaning.

I don't believe that anyone should dictate what is, and what is not, poetry. As a teacher, I have been teaching my students for years a very simple truth: all poetry has to have to be poetry is rhythm. Any other factors, whether it is form, or conventions, or figurative language are merely style points that should be left to the choice of the poet. It's as simple as that.

And so, this is my response to the poet "inquisitors" whose vocal opinions sometimes have the feel of dictums. And my advice: let each poet find their own voice, whatever that voice eventually sounds like.

There Seems to Be
No Time for Rhyme Anymore
Christopher Bogart

What is it about
A rhymed poem
That makes some poets crazy?

“Greeting cards!” they exclaim
When reading metered verse.
“Might as well write for Norcross!
Or Hallmark!”

“Well that displays a narrowness
Of mind,” I respond
In perfect iambic pentameter,
And not a little bit of wit.

“I like my verse ‘Au natural’!
‘Al fresco’!”
They barely shout
Before stark images invade my mind
In places
That will be hard to clean out.

And who is this Al anyway?

Maybe if I hum or sing a song…

Don’t get me wrong.
I like to let it
All hang out
As much as the next guy,
But
I detect a hint
Of blatant Orthodoxy
In their poetic philosophy
…and maybe
The possibility
Of burning flesh.

After all,
What’s wrong with rhyme?
A little alliteration
Makes poetic juices flow.
Assonance.
Consonance.
It all makes sense
In the defense
Of a love
Of words.

Shakespeare used rhyme religiously.
So did Milton,
Tennyson,
Byron
And, after all is said and Donne,
So did Coleridge,
Keats and Shelley.
They weren’t treated
As if they were smelly.
Everyone read them,
Chapter and verse.
No one cursed their endeavors
No matter how clever
Their poetry happened to run.

Some of my poet friends would shout at me,
“Stop it!
There’s no market
For sonnets,
Or meter,
Or rhyme.”

To silence the banter,
Maybe I should just answer,
“Give it time.
Give it time.”