byJayne Jaudon FerrerThis weekend, one of the country’s most acclaimed prose poets, Louis Jenkins, was in my city to do a free reading and a virtually free workshop; nine people showed up for the reading, six for the workshop. Most of those people were at least indirectly involved with setting up the events in the first place, which were made possible through a grant. The county library and I did extensive publicity over a period of several months. We contacted schools, media, area writers and writing groups, literacy and arts groups, and anyone else we thought might be interested.
My first complaint is that our local newspaper didn’t even bother to run the press release, much less do the feature article this poet’s visit deserved. One would think an author with thirteen books under his belt and thirty appearances on “The Writer’s Almanac” would merit at least a mention.
My second complaint is a question: where were all the English teachers and their students? It’s difficult to muster much sympathy for education when opportunities like this are dangled and no one grabs the bait. Every high school and college English professor within at least a fifty-mile radius should have been front and center at at least one of these events, and they should have offered extra credit to any student who attended. Not one teacher was present; not one. Only one student was, and that was my son—who got there only in time to catch the last poem, but I’ll give him credit for at least showing up.
Louis has been at this a long time; he knows—as do all of us who have done more than a few public events—that sometimes people show, sometimes they don’t. His check was assured, either way, and he showed neither disappointment nor annoyance. I, on the other hand, am ticked. And baffled. A few weeks ago, I visited James Whitcomb Riley’s home in Indianapolis. Riley made an excellent living as a poet, traveling the country speaking to sell-out crowds, drawing thousands of people to his funeral, leaving behind an estate of over three million dollars. Riley wasn’t a bad poet, but there are plenty who are better. I can’t imagine people flocking to hear his folksy verse, but flock they did—everywhere he went. So why can’t a much better poet even manage to fill a room these days?
Here’s part of the problem: John Q. Public wants to write poetry, but he doesn’t want to read it. Or hear it. Or buy the books and journals that print it. He wants his work read and validated and spread around, but he doesn’t want to invest the time and effort to study someone else’s. When I do poetry residencies in middle and high schools, I always ask how many students enjoy reading poetry, and one or two hands go up. When I ask how many write poetry, the number increases as much as tenfold. I think perhaps novelists don’t deal with this as much, simply because of the investment of time required in writing a book manuscript. Poetry’s brevity offers an easy commitment; almost anyone can sit down, scrawl a few words on a page, and claim to have a poem. But words on a page do not a poem make; the poetry comes from the connection of those words, the images and sounds they conjure, and the impact they leave behind.
All this and more was discussed at length this weekend. How sad that the teacher who this week will be called upon to offer her students tools and insights for making a poem more powerful missed a chance to learn that information LIVE from an expert. How sad that the student who dreams of publishing his sonnets or haiku someday chose to sleep in instead of having a master craftsman offer guidance on his latest effort. How sad that in a time when money is hard to come by and public arts opportunities are diminished and endangered, this FREE chance to learn and experience the power and crafting of words fluttered by like an overlooked autumn leaf, its magnificence enjoyed only by the few who took time to catch and enjoy it.
The Reading
Like Munsch’s man,
my screams are silent;
no one hears.
Indeed, there are those who would smirk
and roll their eyes at my outrage.
But, no, not outrage; outrage is
for cigarette butts flipped
nonchalantly into flowers,
for environmental activists
who drive to protests in SUVs,
for teachers forced to squelch
interest in a newfound fact
so fifty more can be covered
for the standardized test next week.
No, my scream is born of frustration,
of disappointment and despair
for, once again,
a poet proffered a key
and no one showed up
to accept it.
Copyright 2009 by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Jayne Jaudon Ferrer is the author of four books, the host of http://www.yourdailypoem.com/, and a frequent presenter at women’s and writers’ events. She lives in Greenville, South Carolina. For more information, visit http://www.jaynejaudonferrer.com/.
