A Poem by Diane Seuss
with much and many "sadnesses"
Today’s poets write poetry as if their mode of writing is not a fashion bubble. All writing exists relative to prior writing modes, but poets today do not seem to notice how their faddish copyist and breezy summary will date to cornball irksomeness soon and forever.
Every era is like this. Exclamations of deathless poetry. Poets are notoriously myopic and egotistical and probably disdain objective views of any sort. Have the Romantic era poets dated in their modes? Of course, and yet there are many poems to enjoy. Possibly, a few of the droning modernist poets of today will be read future-wise.
The problem today is that a kind of anti-writing anti-poetry is the mode. Poets today struggle to see who can write the most boring phrases, usually taken verbatim from prose stock and solid cliché and “oh, I’ve tried to no avail…” kind of talky-talk therapy sessions over lattes.
…anti-writing anti-poetry is the mode.
The main effect-in-use is the vague half-thought at the end of a poem. An implication, an inference, empty as air, an excuse for genuine thought, and yet at the same time hundreds and hundreds of poets are doing the exact same thing and can’t seem to notice what they are doing — exactly the same thing! How many generations of poets are fooled into writing in the same manner?
Not convinced? You think you see and hear good things? Try this: take any modern book of poems, or a magazine or webzine of poems — and read nothing but the last lines and the last lines only. What do you get? Between the airy nothingness and the inferred loopiness is swishy-swashy style of anti-expression. Write down as many last lines as you can and put them together on a page and it will become obvious. A boring sentence is a boring sentence no matter what it tries to ‘say.’
So? One thing is for certain; poets today do not care. So many people are calling themselves poets that there is enough screeching feedback to keep the illusion going forward — for generations.
Without honest poetry criticism, some will read and think some writing is actual poetry — when the writing is really reactive bullswoop — if they can’t sing they just talk and call it poetry. And, diary entries of extreme self-indulgence are now considered worthy poetry. Here is a good example:
A legacy
Diane Seuss
Paris Review Sept 2022
I think of the old pipes,
how everything white
in my house is rust-stained,
and the gray-snouted
my attic as his pee pad, I've
tried. oh I've tried
to no
avail, and certain
sadnesses losing their edges,
[…]
like the favorite shoes of that dead
girl now wandering the streets
with someone else's feet in them.
Again, I don’t want to appear to be picking on any one poet, for Diane Seuss is a Pulitzer Prize winning poet and surely is above my poetry criticism. The Paris Review was at one time an esteemed literary journal, and may still be today, but this poem is a good example of modern poems — still being written as if the year is not 2022 but 1970. Hey, guys, times have changed and, again, I am sure Diane Seuss is a wonderful person and I am not talking about the person but the writing.
Also, please note that When I write a negative review of poetry, I do not simply find negativity — I see the negativity as pointing out the direction positive light needs to shine. So, a negative review is not just a one way downing of poetry effort, but guard rails to keep other writers from falling into the echo-chambers or ditches in a no-criticism-allowed poetry world. Ok, too many mixed metaphors, but the idea I hope is clear.
In this poem the word “that” is used three times, probably without much effort or thinking about what or why. That mound of laundry, that pile of pelts, that dead girl. What is the purpose? ‘That’ is a talky emphasis, and the speaker repeats it for effect, such as talking at a podium and pointing vaguely at pictures on the wall when an important idea is expressed in the talking — why? Because the words and sentences are so weak and poorly written that an external pointing spotlight or drum beat is “added” for effect. Similar to “certain.”
Following along, the structure is free association, random thoughts and images. Gosh, as if this has never been done before! — and is so old fashioned and stale, the main flag waved by the numbskull poets of yore in the hippie-poet days. Skritchy-scratchy nothingness galore.
Here, old pipes, rusty things, a raccoon peeing in “my” attic, then, suddenly a confession of sorts, “I've tried. oh I've tried to no avail, …” No avail, oh how original—but then again poets of this modern ilk are not concerned with being original and you know why—they are unable to be original, they are common, they are mediocre, — and they don’t know it for some reason — and, again, they absolutely do not care. I am trying to understand how it is that they can’t see what they write.
And then she has tried, then “and” — the thread randomly switches into “certain sadnesses losing their edges, their sheen, their fur chalk-colored, …” in other words, now some vague and certain sad things are losing their edges? And then these same sad things have fur? In a chalk colored color? Which color is that? (Oh, never mind, just move on.) And then, look at laundry? Now the laundry is a pile, (no longer a mound! Ugh!) And now the laundry is pelts peeled away from animals (I guess any animal will do.) [SUDDENLY] — poems are skinned away from poets!? [SUDDENLY —]
like the favorite shoes of that dead
girl now wandering the streets
with someone else's feet in them.
You do see the problem there, I know you do. The verbal structure leads the reader into reading that the dead girl is wandering the streets — [that dead girl now wandering the streets] and then pivots into the understanding that the shoes are wandering the streets, that is, the shoes are worn by someone else, wearing a dead girls shoes, what, bought at an estate sale? Bad, bad writing.
And, I guess there are sadnesses somewhere? What sadnesses? Is that a word? (Oh, just skip it, keep moving on. No need to fill in the blanks, let the reader fill in the blanks. Doesn’t matter.)
Also, just focus for a minute on that word “certain…” Certain sadnessess… Ok. Why just certain ones? Which ones? Not the other “sadnesses?” Do you see how the vague nothingness in the writing has an effect but no substance? This is the old swish of the cape to prevent the yawn of boredom.
You have pipes, raccoons, pee in the attic, vague sadnesses, laundry, animal pelts, poets and their poems, a dead girl and the dead girl’s shoes now owned by someone else? Whew, really disjointed stuff. But who cares? No one. Get a Pulitzer!
And, no need to worry about spelling in poems any more. Sadnesses are everywhere.
Here are some of the recent responses on Twitter.
This is astounding
this is devastating. Well done.
You astound.
My goddess that’s good.
That is not a small poem.
Wowza.
I think some people genuinely think this is good poetry. Today the bar is set so low a raccoon can be a prize winning poet. The US is now about 27th down on the math scores internationally.
Probably the same is going to be true for language skills, if not already.
Before you read the next part of this review, let’s just put aside any value system in monetary terms or political issues in reference to diamonds.
To think that this poem is good is the same as the world deciding to value diamonds with more occlusions, more flaws, more dullness, than diamonds with clarity. Why? It almost seems that there is something in human nature willing to destroy itself with junk and subpar values.
What is the main effect of the poem? The last effect is probably what the reader feels or thinks last, which is, someone is walking around in a dead girl’s shoes. So, the poem essentially is that one element. Death and irony. Is that enough to make a poem? No, of course not.
How many people run to bookstores and implore the bookseller, “Quick, I need some more death and irony now! Please let me pay for more death and irony!”
Remember the Jardine Rule: if a poem is all negative, it isn’t a poem. If a poem is all negative, all the poet has done is put their hand in a mud puddle, which is not impressive, not an accomplishment, and is just a cheap trick to get a rise out of limited minds.
Has the world lost its way? Absolutely! Love it!