The Poet, the Elitist, and the Unnamed Creator: Can You Spot the Myth?
--Dan Cavallari, Editor
The problem with poetry today is that it is poetry. In and of itself, this should not be any sort of derogatory remark, but in an American society that has all but forgotten how to read—much less enjoy reading—poetry has become an odd form of punishment and a distinct line between everyday people and this new term we hear bandied about, the ELITISTS. Now, the ELITISTS will have you believe that poetry is simply another form of expression, one in which the beauty of language and its flow is valued over the simple handing out of meaning. The ELITISTS want you to believe that you, too, can enjoy poetry. The ELITISTS want you to believe that the death of poetry is coming at the hands of sheer laziness of the sort America can no longer afford.
The ELITISTS are right.
The problem is, the normal, everyday folks no longer speak the same language as the ELITISTS. That is, paradoxically, the core of the problem: the ELITISTS speak in poetry while the normal, everyday folks speak in text messages and biblical passages. Strangely enough, that was how poetry evolved: a new language that allowed for a new expression of art, and ostensibly, a new communication with God. Okay, that’s a simple explanation of a complicated process, sure. But it is true. Unfortunately, the ELITISTS keep saying it is true, and the normal, everyday folks keep hearing nothing but strange gibberish.
So what is to be done about this dissonance? The normal, everyday folks hate the ELITISTS because of their poetry. Luckily, so, too, do the ELITISTS. One cannot be a poet without hating poets. Human creative forces act as an inefficient entity—as we are all human and inherently inefficient in anything we create— so the poet must, at some point in his career, come to grips with the fact that in order to create poetry and label himself a poet, he must, in fact, loathe the thing he has become. The world of poetry carries with it an illusion that all who have never ventured in cannot see: survival and the need for it lurks around every corner. Therefore, acceptance in some form seems an integral part of the craft—whether it comes in the form of one’s self-acceptance, thereby transforming that poet’s work into a sort of catharsis that is only validated if the catharsis works, or if it comes at the hands of a willing participant in the vital counterpoint to writing, the reader.
The need for a label may be inconsequential. When an art form gets labeled, it becomes something real, something tangible and malleable, and thereby acceptable. For the poet—the one who has accepted the label—it means a definitive identity. This is what the poet is, this is what he does. But for someone who rejects that label, what does that person become? Without the label, they are free to exist on a plane devoid of any structure, preconceived expectations, or literary forebears. Even clichés are new because they never existed in this unnamed sphere. This writer, this unnamed creator acts for himself; he is entirely self-sufficient in his writing. It is by him, for him.
This unnamed creator, however, carries with him a restriction as well. His work—in order to remain that pure and untainted collection of words and meanings—must, for all intents and purposes, remain solely the author’s. No publishing, no recognition, no financial gain can be attained for this work. That is, of course, until the author’s passing. Posthumous recognition allows the reader’s work to be experienced without the notion that this work was created for some sort of gain; instead, the reader of such poetry becomes privy to a new level of honesty, and in a sense, a little taste of voyeurism. The words exist in the purest form: the actual emotional state that they were created in, untouched, possibly unedited, intended solely for the eyes of the writer but now cast into the limelight for all to interpret, judge, accept or reject.
And all the unnamed creator had to do in order to present this art in its purest form was die.
There certainly must be another faction of writers who write poetry for purposes other than those common of the poet. Perhaps that other faction of poetry—the unnamed creators—is the faction most pure and honest to the real importance of poetry: expression in a form wholly agreeable to the writer and open for interpretation to the reader.
The world of poetry is like the world of politics. The politician vies for his spot on the podium so that he might further his career and gain both popularity and control over the world he inhabits. The politician speaks his mind but at the same time conforms to social norms so that his world will accept and embrace him. But, in the end, the most qualified people for the job—and most often the people who are most honest and true to their craft—are the ones that stay far away from the opportunity to enter that spotlight. They do so because they understand the corruption involved with that kind of participation. They see how the world has progressed to a place where the intentions of the participants have shifted, and so have the rewards.
This is unfortunate because we, as a society and as a readership, often miss out on the poetry most beneficial to us. But at the same time, it’s comforting to know that this kind of poetry—and politics—still exist in a world where the focus has changed and the intentions of those in control are less than reputable. They still exist in a world where ELITISTS have a podium from which to speak down to us.
The division between the poet and unnamed creator, it turns out, is idealistic but not entirely untrue. To assume that the title of poet translates into an ambitious creator of lines and meanings would be degrading to too many writers. It is idealistic in the sense that there would be some way to distinguish the ELITISTS from the normal, everyday folks when, in fact, the ELITISTS are the normal, everyday folks. Human nature allows us to crave one thing at one moment, then another thing the next moment. Therefore, a poet can be a poet and still write for himself. He can be a poet and write for money. He can be a poet and fill up a notebook with scribbles and ingenious lines that no eyes see except his own.
We all, at some point in our lives, find we are disappointed in ourselves. We all find ourselves hating what we have become, and it’s no secret that self-loathing can be an incredible motivator for writers, poets, artists, and the like. The creative process depends so much on an internal struggle—self-love, self-hate, self-exploration—that it would be impossible to find a poet completely happy with his role as poet. It is the changing writer, the evolving creator, that will ultimately become the most worthy recipient of the title, Poet, for better or worse, for honest intentions or merely for personal gain. The process of becoming and creating is more important than actually being.