The word artists
a SUIT column by Chris Jungle

I used to fancy myself as a potential poet. I wrote in a decent freehand style, went to a few open mike readings, told everyone what was on my mind, got published a couple times, and was steadily convincing myself that there were worse things in the world than being a guy who writes poetry. Then, something happened. I didn't believe in it any more. I noticed as I spat out poignant phrases to the sparse crowds who hung out at coffee shops during poetry time that no one was listening. Most of them were other poets who were just waiting patiently for their turn on the soap box. The other part of the crowd consisted of the even weirder breed who actually went to poetry readings to hear what people had to say. The other night I became part of the latter.

The upside was that the reading was at a bar, so I could pretend to be there just for the sake of drinking in public. But I was there for the poetry, I'll admit it. I wondered what became of the spoken word gatherings since I broke ranks and fled the noble order. I'm happy to report poetry is the same as it ever was. Some good poets, some bad ones, some fun ones, some stupid ones. The problems are still the same. Most people aren't listening, and those who do cheer for good lines have a short lived memory of what the poems are all about. Myself included. That's a shame because I remember how fun it was to hear the line "the mathematics of the crack," but I can't really go into detail of why.

The poetry reading I observed was titled Word Fuck, and as you could guess, there was lots of cussing, explanations of how the poet couldn't be brought to orgasm, penis jokes, and ramblings that went on and on about foolish and humorous experiences mostly dealing with sex. In the end, it was just a show going on too long, and I left before the official end with a beer or two too many in my belly. When I got home I couldn't remember any poem, poet, or message. So much for getting the word out.

So what's wrong with poetry? Why is it still wallowing around in the vagabond artist category? Where is the Poetry Channel on cable? Why don't we reward the poetry slam festival champions with endorsements and accolades? I think I know the answer, and it's all because of the words.

Poetry is word music using rhythms, stress marks, and intonation as its beats, but as the old saying goes, words are cheap. I should know. I've been spewing these columns out every week in the attempt of saying something in a special way, but it's all just words. No matter how eloquently I state something, it's up to the reader to decide whether it's worth a poop. It's the same way with poetry.

Of those listening to the Word Fuck, all I heard was "That one was good," "That one sucked," "What the hell is he talking about," and "Bartender, can I have another?" While there should be enormous and outrageous ovations for the molding of words into something powerful, most of the crowd decided whether each poem was good or bad, and then moved on to the next poet in line.

I don't know when I'll go to another poetry reading. Maybe in a week, maybe in a month, maybe in a year. But it doesn't really matter. I know it's a thankless art which is why many poets have a masochistic look on life. Deep down, the poets have to be writing their lines for themselves because they are the only ones who will fully appreciate it all. That won't change if I go to one poetry reading or a hundred.

A friend of mine truly wants to be a poet more than anything in the world, and I understand his dream. He may write two or three poems a week, and by his own admission, only one of them is good. It's rough, dirty, aggravating work no one will appreciate until he's long gone insane, but it's still what he wants to do. He's working other jobs to make money, get out of debt, and have some cash left over to where he can sit, write the words, and do nothing else with his time. Maybe that's the real poetry. Maybe it's all the real poetry.

Chris Jungle thinks it's funny that while so many people admired Charles Bukowski, he didn't care about any of them.

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