1/01/98: Enough New Year Already
2/01/98: Dash of Venom, If You Would
3/01/98: What Are You Still Doing Here?

"Poetry died today. Or maybe yesterday, I'm not sure."

Anyone who visits a book store for the next thirty days, passing near a poetry section, will notice signs proclaiming April as "poetry month." Poetry month is brought to you by the same people who believe that the world is done a service by posting random licks of poetry on the ceilings of public transportation buses, Els, and subways. Their theory is that you might find yourself tempted to peruse a book of poetry or maybe pick up some verses by a Nobel prize-winning author—even if you're not a poetry buff—just because these signs and messages are telling you to do so. It's a master-servant culture, so let's add some more instructions to the gibberish, right?

Noble as such intentions for revitalizing poetry may be, they often inflict on poetry and serious literature an aura of damage which cannot be repaired. Is poetry so hobbled that it must have a month where purveyors of prosody urge non-readers to kindly, please, beggingly, if-you-would-just-for-a-moment please pick up a copy of the latest by Heaney, Gluck, or Strand? Some seem to feel that unless poetry is urged into the hands of the masses (unwashed or cleansed as they may or may not be), then poetry will be "saved" from the marginal status that the computer revolution has granted it. Some seem to feel that poetry in particular has reached such a niggling state that it must be virtually subsidized; it must be propped up artificially, on stilts and rickety lifts, so that it might be noticed by the cheese-puff loving chortlers at the back of the literary theatre.

Poetry and literature enjoy still today a healthy following among the bright and the talented. Intelligentsia, however, never seem to get over the fact that they don't represent the majority of the world. Earlier this month I sat in a room with almost thirty young poets and writers, all of whom were discussing the status of serious fiction and poetry in the modern literature market. Barnes and Noble and Borders book chains in particular received a beating from the discussion leader, as these chains were largely responsible for putting into the hands of the common man or woman the types of book that he or she (apparently ignorantly) wants: self-help manuals, romances, sleaze. All these people seemed convinced of poetry and serious literature's imminent demise at the hands of the uninformed (and all these discussion members were arguably terrified, as their futures extended out into this nebulous and ne'er-to-be-understood murk of the plebeians and their selfish, greedy, greasy wants). The discussion adjourned with little more than a whimper—alas for poetry, as it breathes its last. The air of the room suggested that more than one person hoped to individually resurrect poetry from its ashes by converting some infidel to the powers of prosody before the day ended. I somehow doubt, however, that many came to The Way before the daylight closed its doors.

Among artists there is an atmosphere of fear. This is fought off by attempts be organizations and groups to promote poetry, to promote art and culture among the masses. This is a noble attempt. But it's ultimately futile. Mack McMackins, changing oil in a grease pit underneath Chevys and Hondas all day long would find little or not pleasure in the ramblings of Auden, Eliot, or Yeats. More people will pick up a Grisham book than a Gluck poetry collection. Is this indicative of the end of art?

In the modern industrialized world, infant mortality rate is incredibly low. The average life span reaches almost into eighty. We hunt and gather our food from grocery stores and most ailments can be treated or kept at abeyance with the right treatment of money. The world is therefore filled with more types of people than ever before. Not all of them willing or interested in poetry or literature. So what. Let them be. There's no need to try to usher them into a fold that they have no interest in inspecting. Art and literature and poetry will continue to survive and yes—maybe the sponsoring of a poetry month will inspire a few new readers. But never allow poetry or literature to appear dead, or in need of a helping hand—to consign art to such a level of impotence is to neutralize it before it ever has a chance to work, to affect, to act. Art acts alone. A lone gunman, needing no one else to point out the targets. After all, those who attempt to aim words in the wrong direction may simply end up picking off the wrong people. Artists: stop worrying about the readers or admirers you're losing, and focus on those you might reach. Scratch that: center yourself on your art and creating the best work possible. Suffer the young readers unto me, thus sayeth the Word. Ain't no pushing 'em if they don't wanna come.