For the record, I’m up early, not up all night.

1.
I think I’ve finally found a great metaphor/concept for thinking about political poetry and its current discontents. The most recent issue of Writers Chronicle has an article in it (and it’s not close at hand, so I’ll come back with particulars of author and dates later) regarding the state of modern political poetry. (With no recourse to slam issue or poets, either.) In it, the author posits a difference between “strategic” and “tactical” poems.

The former — the strategic poem — is defined as poetry that links the personal with the global, identifying the connections between mundane experiences and larger issues that forge links from the reader’s/listener’s mind and heart to the grander issues of the time, thus creating the possibility for empathy and understanding that may create the desire and action for change.

The latter — the tactical poem — hits specific issues head on, testifying, describing and prescribing action and exhorting change in the reader/listener that may or may not drive to action, but which generally don’t place the reader/listener in the role of anything but witness to the testimony.

Both, obviously, have their place. However, the article points out that as in much of modern activism itself, there’s an imbalance right now in terms of how little strategic thought is being employed in political poetry.

This rings very true to me, and goes along with how my own work seems to be evolving.

2.
My rant and disappointment with the youth slam last night shouldn’t be miscontrued as an attack on youth poetry or poets — in fact, I heard strong individual voices last night, but they seemed so buried in the mold of so much I hear these days that it was hard to discern them.

I don’t hold with those who want to cut such generous breaks to young poets in terms of their style and delivery. There are too many good individual voices out there who start strong, then vanish into the fog of imitation as they grow into the scene.

Every time I hear a poet drop into a gruff, abrupt one -syllable burst in a poem, I can hear Buddy Wakefield’s voice on “Convenience Stores” breaking through. I watch the pseudo DJ hands on kids who’ve watched too many other poets do it — kids who once got up awkward and shy on stage but were still trying to be themselves even as they became imitators.

It happens all the time. Stuffing too many words into three minutes because someone told them a poem’s got to fit between 2:30 and 3:10 — and doing it even when they aren’t slamming.

I volunteered to help with the youth slam team in Worcester last night. It’s hard — I will likely not help anyone win a slam; but I will help them be the best they can be as themselves.

Shameless plug: I’ll be the feature poet this afternoon at the monthly reading at the Brockton Public Library. Open mike starts at 3:30; I’ll be on after that. I plan to get there a little early and check out an art show there. Not a Duende gig, as Faro is playing a wedding this afternoon — solo stuff, a mix of obscure old and brand new. Love to see you there.

Over and out for now…