As we here at the Opinionated? Me? blog know, I am fifteen. As a fifteen year old, I often feel obligated to Angst Out in proportions that few are immediatley prepared for. And, obviously, angsting requires actual angst. Not that I don't have angst. I can angst with the best of 'em. But I often find myself wishing to seperate my teenage angst from my Poe angst. Y'know, the real angst. (angst)
So I've been getting into poetry (not Zombie Haiku, either. Real poetry)Frost, Lord Byron, Wilmot, T.S. Eliot, William Butler Yeats, Poe (obvs), Sylivia Plath, Virgina Woolf, even some freaking Shakespeare sonnets. I am becoming quite the literate, if I do say so myself. But when I walk into English class with a little paperback of Emily Dickenson poems, I am greeted with the coos of my supposed literary superior, Mz. (blank), "oh, well, look at you. Do you like poems?" Imagine a women saying this to a particularly dense toddler, and you will understand my frustration.
Anyhoozles, all ranting aside, there is a point to this post, and that point is just as the subject line says: is there any good modern poetry anymore? Is there any ground left to break, any great things still needing to be said? Or is it just a dead beat reserved for the most hidden and psuedo-hip cafe's in Trendy LA?
Not to say there are no talented poets out there. I'm sure there are. But I haven't seen eye nor ear of any of them and, until they release something noteworthy, I will file them in the "imaginary" cabinet, right beside Santa Claus and fat-free doritoes that don't taste like styrophome. Because, seriously you guys, every shithead with a pen and paper thinks they can write poetry, and it.is.getting.old.
I am bored with love
and it's passionless limbs
that drape over my bed
in a lethargic state of impotence
while wearing the same red heart
my soul picked up hitchhiking
off highway serendipity
After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place,--
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.
Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.
Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way,--
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.
--"After a Hundred Years" Emily Dickenson
The difference is ridiculous. One is a whiney, pointless onslaught of eight grade vocab words that say nothing other then love has limbs and hitchhikes (or something). Perhaps I just don't "get" it--but that's the thing. I shouldn't have to get poetry. It should get me. It should speak to the common man in a way no other form of language can. It should convey to me said poets intentions, whatever they were feeling when they wrote it. I shouldn't have to tear my brains out trying to decipher what the hell they were trying to say.
Alas, I live in a generation that don't "get" anything, not even each other. Because that's what I hear, see? "They just don't get it" "I'm so misunderstood!" "I am such a deep soul, dawg!" It's mind numbing, really. Everyone seems to majorly outweigh their own intelligence level, and by extension the intelligence in which they write things down. I have a secret: no matter what posters say, you can judge a book by it's cover. I.e: if you see a kid walking down the street with skinny jeans and an elctro-pop t-shirt, chances are he/she wouldn't know good poetry from a mole on his ass. Not that I do. In fact, I have never voluntarily written a poem in my entire life. But I've read enough to know that my generation is a whiny bunch, and I highly doubt there is an intelligent, original thought to speak of left in the minds of English-speaking citizens of Earth.
To round off this rant, I leave you with some words of wisdom from a good man I like to call Anonymous:
"How bout a nice cup of shut the fuck up?"