Posted by Lizzie on 08/05/08
I find this “genre” terminology particularly distasteful in light of all the terribly formulaic “literary” writing in the world. How many MFA writers have published bad midlist “literary” novels about young self-aware singles struggling against the urban landscape and their own ennui? How many literary magazines have a published a poem that goes something like…
Daybreak at (insert old european building or decaying American industrial structure)
The (insert birds or small animals) aren’t here today,
but as the (insert weather system) rolls in,
I glance at my (insert body part)
And remember you saying once
That (insert wise or spare comment),
On a day much like this one.
(Insert refection or question)
I notice for the first time that my
(insert phsyical attribute of aforementioned bodypart)
has grown (insert emotion or insightful description)
And as I turn and walk back along the
worn path to the (insert name business or car)
I see that the (insert animal from line 1)
has finally come, bearing (insert something small).
And I feel (insert transformative and/or static emotion).
I notice my hands are empty.
Laurel will be coming to guest on the blog (i.e., POST on it for the first time in centuries) on her book tour for her new work, Up and Down the Scratchy Mountain, and I think I am going to ask her to CONTINUE the venerable category of saucy Old Hag poetry.
* She can smack on it, she’s also a serious poet.