“Poetry’s Death?”
By Andrea Scarpino
Los Angeles, CA
Some say American poetry is dead, or at least, Americans’ interest in poetry is dead. It seems every couple of years, someone of great note announces the fact that Americans don’t read poetry, don’t have time for poetry, don’t understand poetry’s value. Being a someone-of-not-so-great note, I’ve often agreed with their opinions and can speak—well—poetically about the importance put on poetry in previous generations and civilizations, and/or in other countries and cultures in contrast to the United States.
However, sometimes things happen to make me wonder if American poetry is really dead. Several weeks ago, I attended a celebration of the Tufts Poetry Awards presented by the Poetry Society of America, Red Hen Press and Claremont Graduate University. Three poets read their work that night, each a former recipient of a Tufts award: Deborah Digges, Rodney Jones and Yusef Komunyakaa.
I’ll be honest: I went to hear Komunyakaa, and I figured, as usual, the crowd would be sparse. I was ready to bemoan the death of American poetry, while taking the opportunity presented by such death to speak one-on-one with Komunyakaa after the reading. Instead, the place was packed to capacity. As the poets were reading, ushers brought in more chairs so that latecomers would have a place to sit. People stood along the sides of the theater and crowded their bags into the aisles. Not even the fact that the stage was set for the theater’s contemporary re-telling of the play Tartuffe complete with a wooden lawn full of fake grass—not even that disguised the fact that the crowd was eager to hear poetry. And forget about speaking with Komunyakaa after the reading! A long line of people holding copies of his books, eager for a bit of conversation and his signature formed before I could even get out of my seat. So maybe poetry is just on life support?
Then, this weekend, the aforementioned someone-of-not-so-great-note gave a poetry reading to support her chapbook, The Grove Behind. I’ve never before given a reading in support of a book I had written, and certainly never as a “headliner” so to speak. I was terrified, not that I would stumble on my poems or trip getting to the stage—I have stood in front of classrooms long enough to know that a joke can make even the most awkward of my mistakes less terrible. Instead, I was terrified no one would come, that I would be alone in the bookstore with the wine and desserts I had brought and no one to listen to my poems but the hapless workers who had no choice but to attend. No one cares about poetry, remember?
Much to my surprise, 25 people attended. And they bought books, spoke to me with passion and intelligence about the poems I had read, asked questions, offered their opinions and personal stories. Of course, I knew most everyone as friends or students, even one former student. But for the most part, they weren’t “poetry people,” just people willing to engage poetry when given the opportunity, when invited personally by a friend, or when—ahem—offered extra credit. American poetry doesn’t have to be dead, nor does American interest in poetry. Yes, I still believe American interest in poetry is much declined from what it should be, but after nights like the Tuft’s reading and my own small reading, I have a little more hope that poetry has, after all, a place when given the chance.
Andrea Scarpino is the West Coast Bureau Chief of POTB and you can visit her at: www.andreascarpino.com
Planet of the Blind 