Monday, June 05, 2006


It is 3 AM. For the last two hours I have been online, searching through the internet for Poetry magazines, sifting through reams and reams of web addresses, trying to separate the trash from the genuine, trying to decide where to send my work.

And now, after discovering the Foyle's Young Poet Contest I am overcome by a deep sense of futility. Four years, sixty "young poets", winners of an international contest- exactly one out of sixty has bothered to try and rhyme, and not a single one has a sense of meter.

Damn everything, is free verse all you have? Just pen down anything which comes to mind, and think you're writing like T.S Eliot? What a crying shame... hundred years ago said "poems" would have been laughed out of existence. The great romantics would be turning in their graves now if they could read the sort of trash being served up in the name of poetry. Oh where art thou fallen from heaven, Lucifer, son of the morning...?

I was on the websites of "Poetry", "The Poetry Society", "The Boston Review" and "The Paris Review"- free verse everywhere. No sense of metre, and as for rhyming... don't even mention the word. So this, then, is contemporary poetry. Part of so-called "modern art." A meaningless jamboree of words put together to sound philospophical, but all sound and fury, signifying nothing. Deeply, deeply frustrating... I did enter a Part One of "Crusader's Song" as well as "Minstrel" for Foyle's, but I'm seriously contemplating quitting writing poetry and sticking to prose from now on... there doesn't seem to be a point to it.


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