The New Yorker tends to run bad poems by excellent poets […] many well-known poets don’t write what’s known in the poetry world as “the New Yorker poem” — basically an epiphany-centered lyric heavy on words like “water” and “light.” [The second] is what you might call “the home job”: the magazine’s widely noted fondness for the work of its own staffers and social associates.
I would suggest that a scarcity of nouns is not the problem. Apparently, it’s a scarcity of new things to write poems about.
If The New Yorker really wanted people to read the poetry they’d put it in the cartoons.
“i am a poet, i describe life:
virtue, vice, pleasure, pain
beauty, romance, romantic strife
using the unequivocable language
of metaphor, allegory, and
other literary device”
fuck that noise, i’m done playing nice
if that’s poetry, then i’m Saddam and Satan is my wife
examine the arbitrary free-form prose scene in a new light:
vapid lines, candied language by day are romance by night
that pollution and dilution leaves me spoiling for a fight
what do these snobs know about suffering for art?
care-free vapid lines, void of meaning
delivered DOA with voice like a dull fart
no rhymes, empty adjectival crimes
embarrassing and forced pseudo-quasi poetry
from a creative rut cloaked in unexamined class
like a house of cards crass, blowing in the wind
entitlement above the law, capricious strut, so walk
these thin-skinned fragile egoes with a glass jaw.
factory-fresh poet wannabes can accuse me of being mean,
or scoff and cry for mommy when i call them unweened
unoriginal rhymethieves, unheard, unseen,
my response to the whining of these poet-type beings:
that’s just the way the world is,
and if they can’t take the heat emotionally,
and shoulder some of the responsibility,
they best be getting out of the biz
post-haste, read that S.T.F.U. A.S.A.P.