I was accepted as a local poet for awhile—got into a few anthologies, sold a few self-published chapbooks and was a loyal follower of certain prominent poetry hosts, whether or not they reciprocated my desire to be a good member of what was and is known as “the poetry community.” Then someone wrote a screed titled STRAIGHT TALK ABOUT POETRY; he strongly advocated for a literary community scouring away the idiosyncrasies of musicians, comedians and what he considered amateur writers not meeting his high standards. Then, a great fear took residence inside of me; even though Mr. Straight Talk wasn’t validated by local poetry, people took his words seriously. And, in a passionate panic, I spent time on Yahoo poetry groups saying that the community needed to be a big tent and not an exclusive club. Sometimes I would publicly with poets who embraced exclusivity; other times, I’d communicate back channel with people who were partially empathetic but believed in literary finery and conscious craftsmanship; they strived for acceptance by their betters, received it and weren’t about to jeopardize their standing.
Here’s the overlap with A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS: Charlie Brown spent part of the running time of the holiday classic bemoaning the commercialization of Christmas while his friends rock out to a Vince Guaraldi tune in the elementary school auditorium, with Schroeder playing distinct non-Beethoven riffs and Snoopy strumming the dog-sized equivalent of a Stratocaster.
Now, imagine me complaining about a higher bar for features (less time to develop people showing promise at open readings), rudeness and dubious behavior/judgment from Highly Regarded People (hosts included)—and the poets turn their eyes and ears to people Published by certain regional and national presses and, perhaps spent time and money achieving MFA degrees (and the people who cannot afford these seeking solace in prestigious workshops learning to write to conceptual prompts or shape true-life anecdotes into something that may at least get a polite rejection letter from THE NEW YORKER).
They’re not rocking out like beloved Peanuts characters happy to ignore Charlie Btown.
Instead, valued time is consumed by listening to meticulously arranged chamber music.
Wherever Mr. Straight Talk is now, he’s probably thrilled to have played a decisive role in creating an environment making clear who/what acceptable, plus showing a door to those less talented souls so they can quickly and quietly exit august venues uninterested in whatever they choose to offer.
