Literary Event #1: What's Wrong with Modern Poetry in 560 Words

           Earlier this quarter I attended Anne Carson’s poetry reading at Encina Hall, although the word ‘reading’ does not accurately the event. In addition to the poet’s voice, there was a metronomic man who croaked ‘bracket, bracket’, several fellow readers who overlapped Carson’s voice, readers in the audience, and an assistant who walked the room spreading orange yarn over the audience. The effect of this on me was a loss of interest in the actual poetry. I did not lack interest to begin with, rather my following of the poems was barricaded by Carson’s showmanship and her troupe’s performance. It is quite difficult to hear and digest lines of verse when three people are speaking simultaneously. The cacophony of voices drowns each other out, leaving only a jumbling of sounds for the audience to appreciate. The simultaneous speakers did have some effect besides obscuring the actual poetry though. In Carson’s reading one can feel the complexity of the modern world, the sensory overload that leaves one wondering ‘what just happened?’ a sentiment that along with a relieved ‘phew’ is equally appropriate for the end of her reading.

            Anne Carson’s reading was an unorthodox poetry reading, and there is valor in that, but it lost me as an audience member. It seemed more focused on novelty, gimmicks, and performance art, than poetry. I can appreciate the innovation, but I really can’t say any of the poetry struck and stuck with me. My strongest memories of the reading are of yarn being passed over my head and the constant ribbiting of ‘Bracket. Bracket’. Anne Carson may very well be a fine poet, but her reading leaves me none the wiser about the truth. 

            Now, as the son of a poet and the unwilling victim of countless poetry readings, I must confess there are a few things that still surprise me at readings. First, it appals me when a poet does not have his/her own poem memorized. If a poem truly comes from one’s heart, then it is not only reasonable but expected that the poet know it by heart. If a poet does not have the interest to remember his own words, why should I? It communicates a weakness in either the poet or the poetry; a weakness in the work’s ability to stir inspire or the poet’s lack of interest in his own poems. When a poet simply reads his own words from paper, it seems no more special than reading it oneself. I believe a poet should summon the words from within and spill them out with passion to a captive audience.

            Now I hate to give Stanford’s prized Anne Carson a bad review, but I feel my utter insignificance allows me to do so without harm. And so I will. I greatly disliked Anne Carson’s poetry reading. It seemed a parody of everything bad in modern poetry. Somewhere between yarn passing over my head and the incomprehensible disunion of several voices, viewing it as a parody seemed the best coping mechanism. And so I did. And it was a jolly and humorous time from thereon. But I hesitate on these words, as a poetry reading should be heavy and trying, it should affect the audience and leave them with haunting lines of verse. I, unfortunately, am haunted only by the croaking of a frogman, repeating ‘bracket, bracket’ over and over. 


~Mike Gioia