Some thoughts about what passes for poetry for people who don't like poetry (like me)

Today I found something interesting in my pile of quarters out of the laundromat change machine, and it looked like this:

 

Before I get into what this coin signifies, let me start off by saying that over the past twenty years I have been collecting the U.S Mint’s quarter series, first of the states and territories, and then of a national park or monument selected from each. The last of the parks series was Alabama’s contribution, the first new quarter released in 2021. The next quarter released a few months later was of George Washington’s crossing of the Delaware…

 

 

…which suggested that the next series would be of historical events, which I thought would be pretty “cool” and useful for people who know little of American history. However, if that was the plan it apparently was shelved, probably because it would be too “male-centric”—which we can deduce the Mint decided, because the next series will be “Prominent American Women.” This means, of course, that the Mint apparently gave in to pressure to tell “herstory.” Well, fine, that just means I won’t feel any “pressure” to rummage through my laundry quarters for the next five years.

Anyways, the first to be so honored is the recently deceased Maya Angelou, who some people call a poet, but more accurately defined as a racial and gender activist who uses the poetry medium to express her self-obsessions. I admit I am not a fan of poetry, and for those who find little value in it, Angelou will suffice as exhibit number one. Angelou has been the subject of a lot of controversy about whether her poetry qualifies as “great” or merely “mediocre.” Some of the poems that Angelou is best known for, like “Phenomenal Woman,” which I first encountered pasted on the wall of someone’s office and took an immediate dislike to because of its obsession with self, and “Still I Rise,” which again sounds more about the author’s personal conceits than a “poem.”

The U.S. Postal Service actually had to provide a tortured explanation for the 2015 stamp commemorating Angelou when it used a poetry line that has been attributed to her, but in fact she did not write at all. Her most famous (I guess) poem—which is insinuated by the bird on the quarter—“I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings,” is accused of being a rewrite of poems written by Paul Dunbar and Joan Anglund, the latter who apparently was the actual author of the alleged Angelou poetry line used on the stamp. On Quora, people suggest that her “cliché-ridden” poems were more “performance art,” closer to song lyrics or advertisement slogans. Another likens them to McDonald’s cheeseburgers; they sell a lot because they “taste” good, high on fat content, less so in protein.

While there are many legitimately great black poets, like Langston Hughes and Elizabeth Bishop, they don’t attract as much attention as Angelou because she “speaks” to a  base that is as self-absorbed as she was. Another problem for me is that on the level of “pure” poetry, Angelou is about as phony as they come. Her “poetry” can easily be broken down to its lowest common denominator: just write out some random thoughts or something that’s bugging you, then break it down into random lines or phrases without any particular rhyme or reason—and voila! you have written a poem! Take for example the following from “Caged Bird”:

The free bird leaps on the back of the wind, and floats downstream till the current ends, and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage, his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown, but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.

As long as we remember that Angelou “borrowed” the ideas for this poem from others, even I admit that this is one her least offensive to non-political sensibilities. But this is supposed to be a “poem,” and this is the completely arbitrary and nonsensical way she broke it down to turn it into a “poem.”

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

Still, I admit that I’m not a fan of poetry, so how can I be a proper “judge” of it. But there is that odd bit of poetry that does sticks in my mind as worthwhile that isn’t a pop song lyric, such as this excerpt from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass:

 

I think I could turn and live with animals,

they are so placid and self-contained,

I stand and look at them long and long.

 

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Not one is dissatisfied,

Not one is demented with the mania of owning things,

Not one kneels to another,

Nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

 

Man, ain’t that the truth—and unlike Angelou’s fake poetry, each line actually has an independent meaning, and is not just a fragment from a complete sentence.

As I say I don’t read poetry, and I couldn’t write any even if I wanted to. However, when I was in college I read The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, which I found an amusing read, not just for the anecdotes but the style and the way certain words were (or were not) capitalized. I also found the story of the demise of Thomas Paine rather interesting, so one day I decided to amuse myself and wrote out the following verse satirizing the "style" of the time: 

 

I, Thomas Paine, here do solemnly submit to the american People

who owe a great Debt to my person for their Freedom 

a humble request to remember their dear Brother

to embark on a Mission to recover his poor Bones

and return them to their proper resting Place.

 

Tis’ a sad Tale of public Forgetfulness,

Whilst the People drool over sporting Heroes and thieving Merchants

the memories of defenders of Liberty fly from the avaricious Mind.

 

‘Whilst the perpetrators of Tyranny

display their deceased Despots in open Forum

 for the oppressed masses to cast fearful Glances upon,

this poor Foghorn for the public Welfare

hast his poor Remains interred in some Moldering Box

in an english Attic in a part Unknown.

 

Reviled and scorned I was by the american People

when I advanced to carry my Ax and rent a Path

through the Jungle of religious Superstition,

for declaiming the odious enslavement of the black Race

and the plain Murder of the Native Race.

 

Perjured by the beneficiaries of my Labors,

abandoned by my Friends,

and at last departing from the living Penniless and Forgotten.

Refused proper burial in a Cemetery,

my unhappy Body was interred on a weed-run Farm

my gravestone Profaned by the rabble of Liberty.

 

For ten years Common Sense wept bitter Tears

when an englishman perceived the errors of my countrymen,

and endeavored to restore my Repute to good Standing.

 

Unhappily, William Cobbett, as he was known,

Though animated by a great oversupply of Idolatry,

stole away my troubled Bones and sailed forth to england.

Greatly distressed by my Removal from my beloved Land of Liberty,

further indignities awaited me

as my poor Bones were deposited in a wooden Box,

ogled upon by the Gross eyes of Freakish nature.

 

Mister Cobbett, who displayed such great Devotion for my life work,

soon tired of my Bones.

But yet desirous of constructing a Monument in my Honor,

removed locks of Hair from my poor Skull

to sell to souvenir Leaches

and thus raise funds for this Project.

This Enterprise was for naught, however

asking for too low a Price for my Locks.

 

For well nigh sixteen Years my bones languished in London Town,

until Mister Cobbett received his just Desserts and expired.

His son sought to auction away my Bones,

but the auctioneer Refused,

since not all englishmen are lacking in Humanity.

 

Consequently my remains were left to idle Forgotten within this attic,

its precise location obscured by the passage of the many Years.

 

In light of all of these various and sundry Outrages,

I call upon you the ungrateful Heirs of Liberty

to remove yourselves from your tired Fundaments

and refrain from empty Exalting and endeavor

to conduct a Search for the Humble T. Paine’s Bones

and bring them hither to the land he did Create.

 

But in the event that my Bones are now but Dust,

let it be remembered that my curse upon the Conscience of Malfeasants

will not be so easily cast aside.

 

Let the Woe of my present Disposition,

serve as a warning to you as to the fate of misemployed Liberty

that it too may crumble beneath the weight of countless lies and misdeeds

that pass without heed beneath the fog of Apathy.

 

If this be in truth the ultimate disposition of both my remains and my legacy

at the hands of daylight Heroes who twitter upon the sound

of ‘worn’ Honor and ‘jaded’ Principles,

then indeed these are Times that try a dead man’s Soul.”

 

At least this got a chuckle from the history professor I showed it to.