I just remembered the project of a friend of mine from ~10 years ago. In one of the cheaper not-yet-gentrified neighborhoods of Pittsburgh, he and his then girlfriend rented out this old sort of carriage-house type building, made it into a goofy sort of art studio/theater and called it the Runaway Hotel, along with a poetry/literary journal of the same name that they published a couple volumes of.
All sorts of bohemian types came around to hang out, goof off, make art, read poetry, put on plays, all sorts of stuff. One weekend they'd put on a play, another weekend would be poetry readings. I only went once, but it was super cool and I think it's the kind of place that could still foster poets and poetry. A real goofy place the surrounding neighborhood kinda tilted their heads at, but there was stuff going on and a lot of life.
I don't remember the exact details of how it ended, but it was something to do with the owners of the place either had plans to sell it or renovate it and raise rent or something to that effect.
“Maybe the next great artists will be musicians, maybe poets, or maybe users of some medium that hasn’t been invented yet. Whatever form they take, they will take root outside the glow of the web.”
"[Arthur Powell's] attempt to create an art culture in the wild west of the late aughts internet was commendable, if quixotic." Mercy, this pessimism is killing me. Arthur Powell had a very good thing with Atop the Cliffs, and, in the words of my nine-year-old Hong Kong student, he's a stupid dumb dummy for quitting. The poetry at his journal was great, some of the best I've seen on the internet, if only for being West-positive, but skillfully wrought too. People on the right need to be more like Ze Joos in taking money for something compelling. What I'd like to do is take a syringe and draw that pessimism out of Arthur, then inject it into the online pornographers. Now that would be a positive change.
Art is both a sacred and social activity. As a simple and ordinary object like a rock is separated from its ordinary surroundings and made holy in its special place, so too is art an act that takes the ordinary material of clay or pigment and manipulated into an uncanny shape that would draw gasps of wonderment. This act made it sacred and special. Such sacred objects impressed on us a need to endow it with a superior beauty and craftsmanship, enhancing its sacredness. This act of devoted earnestness enhances its beauty.
But art is not a solitary act, it springs from within a tradition that provided it its grammar and context. To those outside the tradition, it can look beautiful or strange but its full impact is lost to them. One only has to see the wrong Chinese characters tattooed on the clueless wearers to understand this point. A universal or purely individualistic art is simply impossible. The color of white means purity in England and death in Japan. A splash of paint that has a meaning only to the artist is dead to the audience who knew him not. Into this gap stepped an art critic posing as the priest of contemporary art, offering to reassure the uncertain collector of its quality. You would rarely see this impostor during the Romantic period when an average man would know his Bible and the classics and can draw on the common property of culture.
That power of art, in words, tones, and paints, resides in the twilight between the bright day and deep night. It can never be as sharp as a political speech or a scientific paper. It can only hint and imply in a subtle manner. A passing glance, a fleeting touch, or a well-chosen flower of a certain color, these are of a seductive nature that draw us closer in wonder. Art is indirect. It seduces us. It excites our imagination. It called on us to be our own sleuths as we examined a curious pose, this strange and musical turn of phrase, or the play of soft shadows on a glittering marble.
Understand this nature of art and we will understand the required steps toward the great art.
The future of poetry is artificial literature. Poetic AI slop will prove superior to the slop contemporary authors produce. An AI program invited me to ask it a question, so I asked, "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" It was smart enough to recognize it as a line of poetry but thought it was Tennyson. That is a better-informed answer than I would expect from any college graduate of the past thirty years, including those with degrees in literature.
Not a poem, but this is my attempt to voice the challenges this generation faces, to explain them and to show the way out. Would be honoured if you'd take a look Alan. Happy to send you a free copy.
This might be jarring to some, but the poetry of our times is unironically hiphop/rap. No really, rap has been the most vigorous form of poetic expression of the past 50 years, starting in the 70s and still ongoing. It involves rhyming, wordplay, rhythm, and artistry, so it's poetic by any definition. There's also alot of actually decent creative output within that genre, especially in the golden age of the 90s, if you dig under the surface.
While traditional poetry is still done, with poetry slam events and so on, it's kind of moribund. It's not like past generations, where people actively read poems, and the best poets were famous and made a decent living from their work.
As you said, it's part of our overall decline, and it's also part of the cultural shift in the 60s from an Anglo society to an Africanized, multicultural one. It's no coincidence that the great poems of the traditional style always date back to before the 70s, and that rap evolved to take its place.
I just remembered the project of a friend of mine from ~10 years ago. In one of the cheaper not-yet-gentrified neighborhoods of Pittsburgh, he and his then girlfriend rented out this old sort of carriage-house type building, made it into a goofy sort of art studio/theater and called it the Runaway Hotel, along with a poetry/literary journal of the same name that they published a couple volumes of.
All sorts of bohemian types came around to hang out, goof off, make art, read poetry, put on plays, all sorts of stuff. One weekend they'd put on a play, another weekend would be poetry readings. I only went once, but it was super cool and I think it's the kind of place that could still foster poets and poetry. A real goofy place the surrounding neighborhood kinda tilted their heads at, but there was stuff going on and a lot of life.
I don't remember the exact details of how it ended, but it was something to do with the owners of the place either had plans to sell it or renovate it and raise rent or something to that effect.
“Maybe the next great artists will be musicians, maybe poets, or maybe users of some medium that hasn’t been invented yet. Whatever form they take, they will take root outside the glow of the web.”
Here we are!
"[Arthur Powell's] attempt to create an art culture in the wild west of the late aughts internet was commendable, if quixotic." Mercy, this pessimism is killing me. Arthur Powell had a very good thing with Atop the Cliffs, and, in the words of my nine-year-old Hong Kong student, he's a stupid dumb dummy for quitting. The poetry at his journal was great, some of the best I've seen on the internet, if only for being West-positive, but skillfully wrought too. People on the right need to be more like Ze Joos in taking money for something compelling. What I'd like to do is take a syringe and draw that pessimism out of Arthur, then inject it into the online pornographers. Now that would be a positive change.
Art is both a sacred and social activity. As a simple and ordinary object like a rock is separated from its ordinary surroundings and made holy in its special place, so too is art an act that takes the ordinary material of clay or pigment and manipulated into an uncanny shape that would draw gasps of wonderment. This act made it sacred and special. Such sacred objects impressed on us a need to endow it with a superior beauty and craftsmanship, enhancing its sacredness. This act of devoted earnestness enhances its beauty.
But art is not a solitary act, it springs from within a tradition that provided it its grammar and context. To those outside the tradition, it can look beautiful or strange but its full impact is lost to them. One only has to see the wrong Chinese characters tattooed on the clueless wearers to understand this point. A universal or purely individualistic art is simply impossible. The color of white means purity in England and death in Japan. A splash of paint that has a meaning only to the artist is dead to the audience who knew him not. Into this gap stepped an art critic posing as the priest of contemporary art, offering to reassure the uncertain collector of its quality. You would rarely see this impostor during the Romantic period when an average man would know his Bible and the classics and can draw on the common property of culture.
That power of art, in words, tones, and paints, resides in the twilight between the bright day and deep night. It can never be as sharp as a political speech or a scientific paper. It can only hint and imply in a subtle manner. A passing glance, a fleeting touch, or a well-chosen flower of a certain color, these are of a seductive nature that draw us closer in wonder. Art is indirect. It seduces us. It excites our imagination. It called on us to be our own sleuths as we examined a curious pose, this strange and musical turn of phrase, or the play of soft shadows on a glittering marble.
Understand this nature of art and we will understand the required steps toward the great art.
The future of poetry is artificial literature. Poetic AI slop will prove superior to the slop contemporary authors produce. An AI program invited me to ask it a question, so I asked, "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" It was smart enough to recognize it as a line of poetry but thought it was Tennyson. That is a better-informed answer than I would expect from any college graduate of the past thirty years, including those with degrees in literature.
Not a poem, but this is my attempt to voice the challenges this generation faces, to explain them and to show the way out. Would be honoured if you'd take a look Alan. Happy to send you a free copy.
https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Causes-Richard-Nichols-ebook/dp/B0893M6PQF/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=lost+causes+richard+nichols&qid=1618187048&sr=8-1
Glad to read this. It ain't poetry. It's trash. Call it out for what it is. The loathsome screeds of untalented hacks.
This might be jarring to some, but the poetry of our times is unironically hiphop/rap. No really, rap has been the most vigorous form of poetic expression of the past 50 years, starting in the 70s and still ongoing. It involves rhyming, wordplay, rhythm, and artistry, so it's poetic by any definition. There's also alot of actually decent creative output within that genre, especially in the golden age of the 90s, if you dig under the surface.
While traditional poetry is still done, with poetry slam events and so on, it's kind of moribund. It's not like past generations, where people actively read poems, and the best poets were famous and made a decent living from their work.
As you said, it's part of our overall decline, and it's also part of the cultural shift in the 60s from an Anglo society to an Africanized, multicultural one. It's no coincidence that the great poems of the traditional style always date back to before the 70s, and that rap evolved to take its place.