A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend about bad poetry. Now let me establish right away that I am not the greatest poet to ever walk the land. I'm much more comfortable with prose, both in execution and scholarship. I'm not the best prose stylist in the world either, but all this is beside the point. My friend and I concurred that bad poetry is indeed a repugnant thing to encounter, especially in a place such as a coffee shop poetry reading (I refuse to call it a slam). In this kind of setting, where listeners sit in rapt and starstruck wonder as turtlenecked waifs in black berets or English caps read their hackneyed verse with the sort of epic cadence and over-emphasized meter that is typically reserved for an inspired reading of Beowulf, I feel a little uncomfortable, as if my failure to be impressed borders on artisitic heresy.
But to celebrate bad poets everywhere, I wanted to share some particularly malodorous examples of tortured verse from early Colonial American history. Enjoy.
Rise Oedipus, and, if thou canst, unfold
What means Charybdis underneath the mold,
When Scylla solitary on the ground
(Sitting in form of Niobe) was found,
Till Amhphitrites darling did acquaint
Grim Neptune with the tenor of her plaint,
And caused him send forth Triton with the sound
Of trumpet loud, at which the seas were found
So full of protean forms that the bold shore
Presented Scylla a new paramour...
And so on -- Thomas Morton (America's first bad poet)
And, my favorite couple of lines from bad poet and Puritan minister, Edward Taylor:
In this sad state, God's tender bowels run
Out streams of grace; and He to end all strife
When I imagine God's grace flowing down, somehow it doesn't bring thoughts of diarrhea to mind, but maybe that's just me.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Deconstructing Jay Glazer's Momentary Lack of Reason
By now, if you're a Kentuckian, you've doubtlessly heard about and fumed over FoxSports NFL columnist Jay Glazer's ill-advised and misinformed commentary on our great state. For those of you haven't a clue what I'm referring to, I'll have to summarize, since the Fox network, in a rare moment of sagacity, pulled the column from its website over the weekend. Essentially, Glazer toured the country over the last few weeks, reporting on the various NFL training camps. To here him tell it, his experience in Georgetown with our very own (at least in training camp) Bengals was less than satisfactory. Instead of reporting extensively on the team's onfield progress, as had been customary with the other teams he had covered, Glazer used his space to rip the locals as "rednecks," "hillbillies," and other such pedestrian insults. One would think that a writer so endowed with literary genius as Jay Glazer would have composed more innovative and lyrical invectives. Maybe they didn't teach creative writing up at "dem fancy" schools in New York, Glazer's hometown.
Quite a bit of the backlash I've heard or read about has been directed at Glazer in a vengeful spirit, and I understand the need to defend our state and our way of life against ignorant and blatantly agenda-driven journalism. However, I don't think our state needs protection. Cultured people around the country know Kentucky's numerable contributions to the greater cultural milieu. Aside from the obvious movie stars such Johnny Depp, George Clooney, and Ashley Judd, we boast one of the most vibrant literary heritages of any of the fifty states. Kentucky has given birth to names like Robert Penn Warren, James Still, Wendell Berry, Harriet Arnow, Hunter S. Thompson, Ed McClanahan and James Baker Hall, just to name a fraction of them.
What intrigues me about this whole blowup is an issue that I've pondered over for some time. It strikes me that as a society, we may be no closer than we've ever been at defeating the prejudices that fester in the hearts of men. While it has become the worst of taboos to discriminate against another in regard to race or sexuality, and sometimes religion, it continues to be acceptable in many circles to degrade and make sport of the rural American. If I were to attend some snotty cocktail party and during the course of conversation tell some racially inappropriate joke, I'd be derided as an ignorant oaf. But, if at the same party, I told a hillbilly joke, I'd likely be praised for my inexhaustible wit. This shows me that bigotry is usually not eradicated, but is instead refocused upon a group of people that society has decreed that it is okay to hate. It is like squeezing a balloon: the prejudice may disappear from sight, but it has likely manifested itself in a new way in a different arena. Perhaps that inferior part of us that wants to feel better than our fellow man simply adapts itself to the changing attitudes of society, finding a way in which it can act out yet still possess the favor of the majority. Without peace of spirit, man will continue to hate his fellows in this way, because in some twisted part of his mind, it alleviates his own sense of disenfranchisement and personal failure.
Quite a bit of the backlash I've heard or read about has been directed at Glazer in a vengeful spirit, and I understand the need to defend our state and our way of life against ignorant and blatantly agenda-driven journalism. However, I don't think our state needs protection. Cultured people around the country know Kentucky's numerable contributions to the greater cultural milieu. Aside from the obvious movie stars such Johnny Depp, George Clooney, and Ashley Judd, we boast one of the most vibrant literary heritages of any of the fifty states. Kentucky has given birth to names like Robert Penn Warren, James Still, Wendell Berry, Harriet Arnow, Hunter S. Thompson, Ed McClanahan and James Baker Hall, just to name a fraction of them.
What intrigues me about this whole blowup is an issue that I've pondered over for some time. It strikes me that as a society, we may be no closer than we've ever been at defeating the prejudices that fester in the hearts of men. While it has become the worst of taboos to discriminate against another in regard to race or sexuality, and sometimes religion, it continues to be acceptable in many circles to degrade and make sport of the rural American. If I were to attend some snotty cocktail party and during the course of conversation tell some racially inappropriate joke, I'd be derided as an ignorant oaf. But, if at the same party, I told a hillbilly joke, I'd likely be praised for my inexhaustible wit. This shows me that bigotry is usually not eradicated, but is instead refocused upon a group of people that society has decreed that it is okay to hate. It is like squeezing a balloon: the prejudice may disappear from sight, but it has likely manifested itself in a new way in a different arena. Perhaps that inferior part of us that wants to feel better than our fellow man simply adapts itself to the changing attitudes of society, finding a way in which it can act out yet still possess the favor of the majority. Without peace of spirit, man will continue to hate his fellows in this way, because in some twisted part of his mind, it alleviates his own sense of disenfranchisement and personal failure.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Maiden Voyage
Beginnings are awkward.
I've found that when I tell other people that I'm an amateur writer, they inevitably respond with, "Oh, I wish I could do that..." or, "You're so lucky, I'm a terrible writer myself." Usually, I want to respond by telling them that any person of reasonable intelligence can write if he or she is stubborn enough to wrestle out the first sentence. After that it's butter. Mostly. The point is that it sometimes helps to just start something, even if it feels unnatural. There will be time enough for greatness at some later time, and beginnings are meant to be humble.
So now we have it, a beginning. I've delayed entering the wide world of blogging for quite some time. In my cantankerous and anachronistic way I usually try to subscribe to a trend when it's glory days are past. Just yesterday, Kim deftly pointed out that I don't listen to much music unless it's older than I am. I'm sure she immediately regretted saying so since she had to listen to the ol' "they don't make rock and roll like they used to" speech. Let me go on record right now and say that not even Steely Dan could make records like Steely Dan made back in the seventies. They'd probably be sucked into some cosmic wormhole to a dimension where it's 1972 for all eternity if they even tried to write something like "The Boston Rag" or "Midnight Cruiser."
I wish I could tell you, dear reader, what to expect from this blog if you're so inclined to review it with regularity. Some have political blogs or literature blogs. Others have sports blogs or faith blogs or rant blogs. Stick around long enough and you might get a bit of all of that. My interests are so varied that even I sometimes forget about one or more of them from time to time.
Currently, Kim and I just got back from a weekend vacation at Cave City. As well as providing an opportunity for some some well deserved relaxation, the trip allowed me to sate some of my curiosity about the South-Central/Western region of KY. I've really been into Robert Penn Warren (early 20th century author from Guthrie, KY) this summer, and as a result I've been taken away by the history of the Western KY region, including the Black Patch Tobacco Wars of the turn of the century and the "Cave Wars" that came a little later. Both of these conflicts sprang out of the same kind of struggle that seems to beget all other wars; the striving of ordinary people to achieve some level of prosperity and the pushback from the elite who simply want to stay atop the pile. Cave City and some of its surrounding communities were able to pull themselves out of the mire of poverty and squalor during the 1900's, and tourism can be credited for it. Unfortunately, it appears that the area is in for a period of decline, or as Ignatious Reilly would call it, a downturn of Fortuna's wheel. Tourism has plummeted, and many of the oddball roadside tourist traps that define the Cave City landscape spend much of their time empty of visitors. It makes me wonder if desperation will once again give birth to conflict and tragedy among these people.
Much of our attention was pointed in the direction of Floyd Collins, a cave explorer who was trapped and perished while surveying a previously uncharted cave in hopes of discovering a new tourist attraction. Collins, though he died over 80 years ago, in many ways represents the price that was paid for the prosperity of the region. I certainly won't take up the space telling his tale here, but I recommend Trapped!, Robert Murray and Roger Brucker's excellent account of the rescue attempt. The story has captivated us, and going to see the Sand Cave site made it all the more real to us. The place had an almost surreal peace about it. There were scant traces that anything horrible had happened. In fact, as we making our way over the trail to the cave, a blue and yellow butterfly seemed to lead us to it, flying ahead a short ways, and then alighting on the trail almost as if waiting for us to catch up. We of course ignored the signs that forbid venturing down to the cave itself. I didn't feel that examining the site would be any slight of respect to a man as adventurous as Floyd Collins. As far as tourism goes, I would rate our visitation to this small, humble, little sinkhole to be far more meaningful than the extended tour we took through Mammoth Cave or our numerous visits to the other attractions.
I've found that when I tell other people that I'm an amateur writer, they inevitably respond with, "Oh, I wish I could do that..." or, "You're so lucky, I'm a terrible writer myself." Usually, I want to respond by telling them that any person of reasonable intelligence can write if he or she is stubborn enough to wrestle out the first sentence. After that it's butter. Mostly. The point is that it sometimes helps to just start something, even if it feels unnatural. There will be time enough for greatness at some later time, and beginnings are meant to be humble.
So now we have it, a beginning. I've delayed entering the wide world of blogging for quite some time. In my cantankerous and anachronistic way I usually try to subscribe to a trend when it's glory days are past. Just yesterday, Kim deftly pointed out that I don't listen to much music unless it's older than I am. I'm sure she immediately regretted saying so since she had to listen to the ol' "they don't make rock and roll like they used to" speech. Let me go on record right now and say that not even Steely Dan could make records like Steely Dan made back in the seventies. They'd probably be sucked into some cosmic wormhole to a dimension where it's 1972 for all eternity if they even tried to write something like "The Boston Rag" or "Midnight Cruiser."
I wish I could tell you, dear reader, what to expect from this blog if you're so inclined to review it with regularity. Some have political blogs or literature blogs. Others have sports blogs or faith blogs or rant blogs. Stick around long enough and you might get a bit of all of that. My interests are so varied that even I sometimes forget about one or more of them from time to time.
Currently, Kim and I just got back from a weekend vacation at Cave City. As well as providing an opportunity for some some well deserved relaxation, the trip allowed me to sate some of my curiosity about the South-Central/Western region of KY. I've really been into Robert Penn Warren (early 20th century author from Guthrie, KY) this summer, and as a result I've been taken away by the history of the Western KY region, including the Black Patch Tobacco Wars of the turn of the century and the "Cave Wars" that came a little later. Both of these conflicts sprang out of the same kind of struggle that seems to beget all other wars; the striving of ordinary people to achieve some level of prosperity and the pushback from the elite who simply want to stay atop the pile. Cave City and some of its surrounding communities were able to pull themselves out of the mire of poverty and squalor during the 1900's, and tourism can be credited for it. Unfortunately, it appears that the area is in for a period of decline, or as Ignatious Reilly would call it, a downturn of Fortuna's wheel. Tourism has plummeted, and many of the oddball roadside tourist traps that define the Cave City landscape spend much of their time empty of visitors. It makes me wonder if desperation will once again give birth to conflict and tragedy among these people.
Much of our attention was pointed in the direction of Floyd Collins, a cave explorer who was trapped and perished while surveying a previously uncharted cave in hopes of discovering a new tourist attraction. Collins, though he died over 80 years ago, in many ways represents the price that was paid for the prosperity of the region. I certainly won't take up the space telling his tale here, but I recommend Trapped!, Robert Murray and Roger Brucker's excellent account of the rescue attempt. The story has captivated us, and going to see the Sand Cave site made it all the more real to us. The place had an almost surreal peace about it. There were scant traces that anything horrible had happened. In fact, as we making our way over the trail to the cave, a blue and yellow butterfly seemed to lead us to it, flying ahead a short ways, and then alighting on the trail almost as if waiting for us to catch up. We of course ignored the signs that forbid venturing down to the cave itself. I didn't feel that examining the site would be any slight of respect to a man as adventurous as Floyd Collins. As far as tourism goes, I would rate our visitation to this small, humble, little sinkhole to be far more meaningful than the extended tour we took through Mammoth Cave or our numerous visits to the other attractions.
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