Yesterday, I was exhausted from post travel activities, which included: unpacking, laundry, catching up on endless emails, and preparing for the week ahead. Whew! The past week has been a whirlwind and an eye opener. I did manage to sneak in a DVD to rest a bit and really enjoyed the 2009 film, Adam. A romantic comedy about a young man with Asperger's Syndrome and a beautiful teacher/writer and their evolving romance.
What struck me most about the film was the way in which communication is delivered or mishandled in relationships and the many challenges that come from trying to get inside another's mind. Even without any neuro-deficiencies, it's tough. The film beautifully illustrates the complexity, difficulty or inability to read another's intentions, body language or sarcasm. I don't think anyone needs to have a "syndrome" to be challenged by any of these, social cues or not.
Today, I feel like one of those challenged folks as I scratch my head in utter bewilderment. I heard, what should be joyful news in any other context, that a local poet just won the Pulitzer Prize for one of (their) books. Let me first clarify that I am not up for such an award and am not jealous of anyone winning an award, in fact, to the contrary. I am delighted when someone (worthy) is recognized by such an esteemed bunch. I mean what writer wouldn't be thrilled to win the Pulitzer, right? (And also thrilled for their contemporaries, especially when not competing with them.) So, why does this news irritate me so much?
What causes me confusion is the climate of what is esteemed at this particular point in time in literature. One of the goals of language, I thought, is to make meaning. To communicate your thoughts, feelings, preferences, etc...to another human being. Language was created because we can't read each other's minds, at least not yet ;). However, in the world of poetry, in particular, the opposite seems true. What is celebrated today is often obtuse, disconnected, sparce and utterly void of any meaning making. Often impersonal, overly clever, creepy and highly cerebral, contemporary poetry is often void of any realness, humanness, softness, or heart and soul. I know, I know, some of you intellectuals are already rolling your eyes right now at my use of the words "heart" and "soul," well pardon me. I do not live merely in my head and can't stomach those who do.
What happened to the poets who emoted? When did real feelings and personal experiences go out of style? Are we moving toward an even more impersonal, flarful world? I thought it was the poets who helped us see beyond the material landscape? We are supposed to be the brave ones, the ones others turn to when they can't find the words or make meaning for themselves. Poets are the ones that are not afraid to say what we feel and allow others to really peer inside, right? If poets don't serve this purpose, who will?
One of the interesting, and by interesting, I mean disappointing things I noticed about most of the live readings I went to in Denver, was that for a group of "sensitive" types, their work was sorely lacking any sensitivity. Most performed overly clever, glib, let me impress you with some random nonsense style, that I managed to be superficially moved to only occasional laughter. A small fraction, maybe 2 or 3, moved me in a deeper way, Jill Alexander Essbaum was one of them. This I did not expect. It makes me wonder if we have given up on the idea of making meaning, or is anything meaningful to us anymore? Is the job just too daunting, or are we just too lazy or fearful to go there?
If you have any thoughts on this topic, I'd love to hear from you. Please clue me in on what I'm missing. Shed some light on this for me, please. I'm obviously out here in the dark.
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