On Poetic Greatness - D. Orr in NY Times

Want to start a row amongst a bunch of word nerds? This piece by David Orr in the NY Times could be your catalyst.

That the parameters for greatness in poetry are more subjective than in many other endeavors is (perhaps) the one thing we can all agree on.

Orr contrasts Robert Lowell, who he cites as a less-talented but more ambitious poet, with Elizabeth Bishop, who wrote relatively few poems but labored over each meticulously.  And he declares that Bishop is now considered closer to greatness. 

Let Round One begin.

I like Orr's jab at the tendency to swoon over the amazingness of poets from beyond the U.S.A.'s borders. I can think of one young female poet who seems a current manifestation.

Ultimately, what any poet or artist can do is to write, to paint, to compose, to sing, etc. What's great about anything that results from these efforts will sort itself out (and probably change with time and new generations). 

Challenging ourselves as poets to write well . . . to not fall into repetitiveness or tediousness . . . is the crucial element for creating a body of work that might seem great to someone someday.

 

Good for the Mess!

At one of the Starbucks I frequent, I'm always bemused by the variety of items left on the bar where coffee patrons sip, read the paper, and type industriously.

It's almost a still life model of the mundane, incongruous, and odd. 

This evening there were five rolls of toilet paper (one of which was unwrapped from its green packaging); three really large bags of coffee beans in spaceship-silver sacks; a cardboard box stuffed with 1,200 Sugar(s)-in-the-Raw; a plastic bottle of some clear flavored syrup (its label turned away . . . imagination could have converted it to olive oil or mouthwash); an empty pitcher that still appeared stained with tea at its bottom; and (finally) a square of blue plastic emptied of whatever pastries had been delivered in it. 

I find this curious, in that I could well imagine a scene similar to this in my place of residence. Things just end up on top of surfaces randomly, haphazardly. It's very unlikely anyone from the general public will ever witness this private clutter. But at Starbucks it seems strange. 

I'm not offended. And actually I am more amused than bemused. 

The rest of the store seems organized, with things seemingly where they're meant to go. It's just this narrow neighborhood that appears disheveled . . . like a lock of hair that keeps standing up above a part. 

So, I suppose this is actually a cheer for the non-homogeneous, for less-than-meticulous appearance, and an attitude that doesn't seem to care . . . I mean, every time I come here there's always a display on the bar. 

Good for the mess! This Starbucks is like no other. 

Seasonal Shifting on the Horizon

The snow banks in Boston have come down to knee high from waist high. Walking to the gym this morning, it almost seemed that winter was over. It's not, of course. In New England it goes on awhile into what would be spring in other places. 

I am not complaining. I like winter. 

Though when we enter that transitory period between winter and spring, when the white melts away to black underneath, and ponds of rock-salted muck appear, I think everyone's ready to fast-forward.

Before winter does disappear, I want to mention one of its unexpected beauties. 

A couple times over the past weeks, as I've been walking to work after a snowfall, the wind has stirred the snow from the roofs of buildings along my path and thrown a swirl of crystals up against the morning sun. The effect is stunning, like a daylight fireworks display. 

The mundane canyons downtown transform to alpine peaks for an instant, and I feel confirmed in my willingness to notice such brief displays. I wonder if anyone but me has looked up from our determined burrowing toward the day's pending work.