I enjoy writing poetry. I don’t enjoy reading the modern stuff that gets published in ‘zines like MPT and POETRY. These days it seems that most poets whose work is accepted by these rags are only interested in how queer, political, or traumatized they are. Yes, that’s a broad generalization, but I defy you to leaf through either of the latest issues of those books and prove me wrong.
I ain’t saying there’s anything wrong with those subjects. Art reflects the times; or, more accurately, the response of the artists who care enough to get their work published reflect the subset of humanity who still believes their own farts don’t stink. Reading such verse is tiresome, and I can relate to none of it.
I’ve achieved that old, masculine, curmudgeon stage of my literary life, where the voices of the old masters speak so much more clearly and eloquently to me. It’s a shame that writing about beauty has gotten buried under the thoughts of so many people who are confused about their cultural and sexual orientations, because none of that chaos interests me one whit.
It’s a good thing that I know myself this well, and I wouldn’t if I was still pretending to understand what the flag-wavers were saying.
2024.08.15 – 2024.10.09
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