Hopefully, this will just be a quick post. Have I ever mentioned that I actually have a real job?– and so I must husband my time well if I want this blog to continue to be a pleasure and not a drudgery. Luckily, I have no life, so well, that frees up some time.
I’m not sure yet how I want to go about reporting my Dud Readings– those books or other things that I venture to study, only to discover that their fruits were not as sweet and ripe as the whispers of their branches had led me to believe.
Alright, so let’s just put it on the table: Here are two authors I think I don’t need to read anymore, like ever: 1) Ray Bradbury and 2) Mary Jo Bang.
I’ve never gotten why people like Bradbury so much, and I’ve recently tried reading him again (maybe, I don’t know, for the 6th or 7th time in my life), and I just can’t get into it. To me, Bradbury writes for the people who like Norman Rockwell paintings. And it ain’t me, babe.
As for Bang, I have come across poems in my life that I liked from her and left my Future Self dutiful notes to dutifully follow-up on: “Read more Bang!” But now that I have read more Bang, I feel I didn’t get that much bang for my read.
Alas, how does one critique modern poetry? I won’t even try, at least not at this stage of my Self-Doctorate. Wellllll… okay, let me say this: if a poem is going to be about the mundane, I feel it should use the mundane to exalt. Williams’ Red Wheel Barrow, for instance, on which so much depends. Or Frost’s horse giving its harness bells a shake on a snowy evening.
In fairness (and also to see what the Hell my Past Self was thinking), I may eventually look up and post the poems of Bang that I liked so much. Just by writing two or three poems I like, she automatically becomes one of my top twenty modern poets, seeing as how I think poetry died decades ago.