Then,on Monday of yore, via a piece about the role poetry has played in politics. I had hoped you’d notice. But you missed it. Again. I’m starting to think rhyme is in decline.
It wandered lonely as a cloud.
With everyone abbreviating whenever possible these days,it surprises me that poetry isn’t more popular. I’ve always loved verse. From Spike Milligan to A.A. Milne,any writer who could make me laugh through the witty combination of words would find their books on my bookshelves,should they come look for them.
But:“Since 2002,the share of poetry readers has contracted by 45 per cent – the steepest decline in participation in any literary genre. Over the past 20 years,the downward trend is nearly perfectly linear and doesn’t show signs of abating. According to the latest numbers,poetry is less popular than jazz. It’s less popular than dance and only about half as popular as knitting.”
Half as popular as knitting?! I knew things were bad,but that’s a needle to the heart.
Poets still live among us,and do the Lord’s work. There are vibrant poetry groups in the flesh and on Facebook.,for example,just celebrated its 10th birthday and has outgrown the Bankstown Arts Centre. Their fun requires funding. Their rhyme needs a dime. And there are many others like them who gather passionately. But scroll through the website of most literary agents and it won’t take long to find the dreaded words:“We are not accepting poetry submissions at this time.”
Verse. Fresh from the hearse.
Those times are a-changin’,as the great poet said. Beyond the fringes and in the mainstream,poetry can’t keep pace. Desperate to give the future a chance,I asked ChatGPT to rhyme for me,but its “breezes” were always “gentle” and its “leaves” repeatedly “rustled”. The pleasure of poetry,of all forms of literature,is the word you’re not expecting. Invention,not convention.
And so,despite false hope on the eve of the biggest day on the calendar,World Poetry Day felt more like a funeral than a festival. I needed to vent my woes,so here goes:
The Ode To Ruin
I thought today’s lack of time
would be a positive thing for rhyme.
I thought short attention spans
would bring the limerick new fans.
But sales of things poetic
are absolutely pathetic.
It appears that clever verse
is headed for the hearse.
The frenzy of online
hasn’t helped the art of rhyme.
Technology bonanza,
the death knell of the stanza.
Appetite for iambic meter
continues to wane,to peter …
Out with the alliteration,
not even in moderation?
Ode and epic – ’twas good to see ya!
Farewell onomatopoeia.
The saddest state of play
What would Shakespeare say?
Baudelaire would despair,
Ted Hughes would have the blues.
Lear would shed a tear
and Browning would be frowning.
Generation Z
has put poetry to bed
But they could do much worse
than fill their lives with verse.
It’s perfect for this age.
Doesn’t fill the page.
Snippets of description
no cause for a prescription.
But who would be a bard?
It’s getting far too hard
to sell your work to those
who won’t return from prose.
Yet I have many friends
who wish to buck these trends.
Who’ve chosen to refrain
from farewelling the quatrain.
In bed,on bus,in bar,
even in the car!
They scribble every thought,
although it earns them nought.
I can’t change the times
but I can revisit the rhymes
that cheered me as a boy,
that were my favourite toy.
Words have made me more content
than any invention,past or present
And I’ll hazard a guess that the future
Won’t rhyme.
But I’ll miss people putting words together
so that they amuse
Forever …
It’s a real shame we’re quitting.
Now I’m off to take up knitting.
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