MINOR POETS
Who says so and are they right?
Minor Poets
Nicholas insists on handmade vellum, Elise prints in gold
on black paper.
Landry writes in lipstick on cracked mirrors just before
the janitor appeas with his grimy rag.
But my favorite is anyone who composes only in winter,
her hot breath on the cold pane.
The other day I was talking to some students about -- what else -- poetry. Somebody Googled a current list of major poets, and here it is: Ada Limon, Natalie Diaz, Paul Muldoon, Ross Gay, Sharon Olds, Jericho Brown, Ocean Vuong, Maggie Nelson.
From that list, one or two love Sharon Olds but have never heard of Ross Gay. A couple of others are fans of Jericho Brown but clueless about all the others except Ada Limon.
I remind them that not all that long ago a similar list would’ve been mostly all white men. Yeats, Larkin, Pound, Eliot - -those merrymakers.
Then we talk about Major and Minor poets. There are lots of textbooks with the word Major in the title, probably none with Minor, since the list would be very long and probably not much fun to read.
Who moves writers up and down the Best lists? A few years ago a poem about race or immigration might have been more highly regarded than a poem about pruning the roses or walking in Muir woods. I know! I do. It depends. But indulge me.
There are always new lists or rankings by brainy people who grade the heavy hitters and discreetly avoid poets with few or no awards, those who’ve been nominated for a Pushcart Prize but never won, those who sometimes make the long lists for glittering prizes but rarely the short list.
Almost famous: a plangent two words, no?
My poem (above) is about very minor poets -- the ones who adore the tools of composition more than the composition. The lipstick artist in stanza two followed by someone in the final stanza who writes with breath and the tip of an index finger.
And since we’ re talking about poetry: notice how a single word in my poem can change the valence or temperature of a line/stanza/the whole thing --
But my favorite is always the one who composes only in winter,
her hot breath on the cold pane.
But my favorite is always the one who composes only in winter,
hot breath on the cold pane.
One word tilts that modest poem on its axis a little. On a planet, that sort of astrological phenomenon could make for a whole new climate. For poetry, sometimes that climate is tropical and inviting. Sometimes, alas, more polar and challenging than I’d hoped.
Finally, one of the standards for staying power among poets is how long their reputations last. Well, some so-called classics bore the pants off me compared to something scrawled in anger or passion and destined to slap me awake just before it disappears.