“Where’s the poet? show him! show him,/ Muses nine! that I may know him.”
— from “Where’s the Poet” by John Keats
Here is a confession, just between you and me: I am a poetry snob. I’m not really a snob about most other things. I don’t notice what clothes people wear most of the time, so I could care less whether they’re Abercrombie or Wal-Mart brand, I don’t have to be seen at certain restaurants or night spots, and I will talk to almost anyone regardless of social class (although I may not talk to you a second time if your personality isn’t up to snuff).
But poetry, that’s a little bit different. I have certain standards for poetry, I guess. As I glance back at the previous sentence, I realize how horrible it sounds. Standards for poetry? How atrocious! I’m a freethinking type — shouldn’t everything that wants to be poetry, be poetry? Well, yes. But I simply won’t admit that all poetry is good poetry. There is crap out there, and I’ve read a lot of it.
On the up side, though, my reaction to poetry isn’t at all based on the social class or reputation of the poet, so at least my snobbery is based on content and not on class. I’ve read some really terrible published poetry written by white male professors at universities (and by women and minorities, too, before you start calling me a WASP-basher). And I’ve read some unpublished poetry that genuinely touched my heart written by unattractive, unhappy, often unemployed males and females of a variety of races and backgrounds.
Of course, my poetry snobbery isn’t really a problem most of the time since poetry doesn’t come up that often in the daily course of human affairs, and Congress isn’t voting to change the Poetry Code (limiting the number of sequential similes or disallowing allusions to pop culture icons like NSYNC) or anything, so my poetry snobbery hasn’t really been an issue. Until recently — until former United States Poet Laureate Maya Angelou decided that she would start writing poetry for, of all entities, the Hallmark Corporation.
Maya Angelou is one of my favorite modern poets, and I admire her refusal to elevate poetry to an incomprehensible level of complex allusions and self-referential imagery. Instead, she’s well-known as the “Poet of the People,” a writer who speaks to many types of people and not just to educated English major types (such as myself). She has carved out a place for her own original voice, not just through her poetry but also through her affective autobiographical works, including I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
Anyway, my gut reaction to the Hallmark-Angelou merger was quite negative. “She’s going to write what? For who?” Because, like most poetry snobs, I view Hallmark cards and their ilk as the dregs of sentimental, cheesy, pre-packaged, forced rhyme verse. Ick.
But reflections and conversations since I first heard the news have altered my opinion. After all, Angelou herself claims that her purpose in this is to increase her audience, to appeal to people who might not be enjoying poetry. That’s fairly noble. There is definitely a whole untapped group of people out there, just waiting to start enjoying some poetry. Unfortunately, they, like me, probably chunk the sickly sweet cards right into the trash can, unless they have pictures of something cute on them, in which case they dangle from a magnet on our refrigerators until they decompose. Although it’s true that neither Hallmark nor Angelou herself is divulging how much she’s raking in with this endeavor, I’m ignoring that cynical voice in my head whining about money winning out over artistic integrity once again.
One person with whom I discussed Angelou’s new foray noted that her cards might start an avalanche of interest in poetry. I have now dubbed this the Gateway Theory of Poetry. In other words, Maya Angelou greeting cards work just like marijuana supposedly works as a gateway drug. You know, just-say-no enthusiasts argue that if you start smoking marijuana it will soon lead to experimentation with other drugs, such as heroin, crack and the oregano in your mom’s kitchen cabinet. So maybe people will read the poetry on the Angelou cards and run out and try the harder stuff.
OK, that’s a little weak. But what about this? Maya Angelou is 73 years old and probably the most famous living poet in the world, and she can do whatever she darn well pleases, whether poetry snobs like it or not.
Frankly, I wish her success in this endeavor. I hope that this will open doors for other poets and writers to start creating lines of cards and gifts for Hallmark. One such writer might be me. I could start working on the “You Suck” greeting card division, a line of cards created to help you express all those nasty feelings you have for the people who surround you ad nausea, from friends and family to colleagues and acquaintances.
Then again, maybe it’s better if I leave the greeting card business to the sentimental stiffs already working the beat. But I’m trying to suppress my snobbish ideals here. I definitely think poets should market their poetry wherever they can, so if this opportunity brings prosperity to Angelou, then that’s terrific. She deserves whatever returns she can get from having people purchase her poetry, even through Hallmark.
The only thing I wish is that she weren’t rationalizing herself with her “Poet of the People” comments about her motivations. Let’s face it, greeting cards are luxury items, so selling them at $2.49 per card minimum isn’t exactly a way of feeding the masses of poetry-deprived America. Now, printing poems on the Big Mac wrappers at McDonald’s would probably speak to the masses. But it’s doubtful that they’d care.*
This article appears in Feb 23 – Mar 1, 2002.
