The "P" word

There’s no shortage of problematic “P” words in the English language  – "pope", "paedophile", "patriot", "psychotic" . . . the list goes on. But the most problematic of all is “poetry”. It’s fair to say that the word “poetry” – what is it? what does it mean? – strikes more fear into the hearts of both the general and particular populaces than the thought of Anne Tolley in the nip. But how can this be?

This woeful scenario is too often blamed on Poetry (the verbal art) or poetry (examples of that art), when really it is the Western Poetry Establishment that is committing the most heinous crimes. Now most of you will have seen a poet before – some of you may even have met one – and for most of you the kind of “establishment” affordable by the poetry industry would look more like a trapper’s hut than an ivory tower. Alas, if only it were so. The Poetry Establishment is actually housed in a luxuriously appointed and heavily guarded fortress, whose only claim to supporting good poetry is the graffiti sprayed on its walls.

I am about to show you the kind of thing the Poetry Establishment tells us is Poetry; if you don’t like it or don’t understand it, the fault unquestionably lies within you, not the Poem, because this Poem has been written by a Poet, whose claim to the name in this case has been endorsed by that peerless arbiter of literary taste, The New Yorker. The following appeared in the issue dated 30 August 2010:


“Men at Work”
 by Julie Bruck

I said, “Do you speak-a my language?”
He just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich.
                                                            —“Down Under.”

We middle-aged sense them immediately:
four brittle pop stars sprawled across
the rigid fibreglass chairs at the airport gate.
It’s not just that they’re Australian, that gorgeous
thunk of English, the stacked electric-guitar cases
draped with black leather jackets, or their deep
tans on this Sunday night in midwinter Toronto

that holds everyone’s attention, drawn as we are,
pale filings to their pull. Even their rail-thin
lassitude attracts us, as it must Doug, the portly
Air Canada gate manager in his personalized jacket,
who arrives to greet the band, cranking hands
and cracking jokes. Doug, who must live in

Mississauga with the wife and a couple of kids

and who insists the boys come back to play Toronto

next year, when we clutchers of boarding passes
will have abandoned our carry-ons for tickets
to a midsized arena and a resurrected band
whose lyrics never did make sense but
which are laced to a beat that won’t let go—
propelling us down the carpeted ramps
of late-night flights on feeder airlines, hips
back in charge of our strange young bodies,
now shaking down runways in rows.
Answers on the back of a Men at Work album cover to . . . seriously, yes seriously, this is Poetry in the 21st century. Julie starts well by using the name of an exotic Australian (imagine!) band for her title and filching a couplet from their most famous song. You would think Julie would be somewhat deferential to both the band and their work after such shameless appropriation, but no. Julie is a Poet, which means she can say with impunity (except within the pages of New Zealand Gerald) that Men at Work's lyrics "never did make sense". Speak for yourself, dear.

And so we come to two more problematic "P" words: "patronizing" and "pretentious". The New Yorker seems to go out of its way to publish the most patronizing and pretentious poets practising  (lots of "P" words there, aren't there?) – they've been doing it for years. In this example, Julie can't seem to stop herself from condescending to everyone she populates her "poem" with.

How about "portly" (now that's a poetic adjective, isn't it?) Doug, who has a personalized jacket (bless) and "crank[s] hands" as if he's trying to start a Ford Model A. He does this because he's "cracking jokes" at the same time – if you look carefully both verbs begin with "cra", a sure sign that this is Poetry (not The Electric Company). Julie feels particularly superior to cuddly Dougly: he "must live in Mississauga". Why? Is Julie clairvoyant as well as condescending? But wait, her crystal ball is clearing: "with the wife and a couple of kids" (my emphasis). Whatever this is, it isn't poetry. It's pretentious, patronizing piffle.

The rest of "Men at Work" is heavy-handed "observation" on middle-age, lost youth and – wait for it – resurrection, all couched in the tritest "poetic" language imaginable. If you're still with me, I hope this little exposé has helped some of you realize you have nothing to fear from Poetry. And remember: if you're having trouble understanding poetry that's printed in esteemed literary publications like The New Yorker, the fault is more likely to be on the side of the so-called poets than yours.