How to Buy and Sell Poetry

There are 8 more stanzas of this crap (all of which were frequently recited on theater stages by the author to audiences who actually paid for the privilege), but I think you'll agree that one of them pretty much stuffs the bag. It takes inspiration to write poetry, even bad poetry, and McDonagall's muse, apparently, was every bit as fiery as that of fellow poet/countryman Robert Burns:

"The most startling incident in my life was the time I discovered myself to be a poet, which was in the year 1877. During the Dundee holiday week, in the bright and balmy month of June, when trees and flowers were in full bloom, while lonely and sad in my room, I sat thinking about the thousands of people who were away by rail and steamboat, perhaps to the land of Burns, or poor ill-treated Tannahill, or to gaze upon the Trossachs in Rob Roy's country, or elsewhere wherever their minds led them. Well, while pondering so, I seemed to feel as it were a strange kind of feeling stealing over me, and remained so for about five minutes. A flame, as Lord Byron has said, seemed to kindle up my entire frame, along with a strong desire to write poetry; and I felt so happy, so happy, that I was inclined to dance, then I began to pace backwards and forwards in the room, trying to shake off all thought of writing poetry; but the more I tried, the more strong the sensation became. It was so strong, I imagined that a pen was in my right hand, and a voice crying, 'Write! Write!'"

You're with me on this, right? This is one voice I wish I could've put a lid on - permanente. My guess is that this poor slob was doomed before he even hit the birthing table anyway - namely, at that watershed, "aha!" moment when pure inspiration sprung like a glittering jewel from his mother's lips: "Yes! That's it! I'll name him Topaz!"

One of the reasons there's so much bad poetry out there is that anybody's feeble, doddering great aunt can sit down and knock off a ditty about daisy chains or gossamer-winged insects in a matter of minutes. Do this 12 or 15 times, and voila, you've got yourself a book. Not that any publisher in their right mind would print it, but poetry, because it takes up so little space, can be shoved just about anywhere. And often is. Sometimes this stuff surfaces in a local newspaper at the end of the recipe column - you know, there'll be a few rhymed couplets about bluebirds and flowers and junk that we should pause in our days to observe and reverentially take note of. Sometimes it's in a literary magazine next to somebody's scrawled, amateurish idea of avant garde line art. And sometimes - much too often, in fact - it's met with so much aversion that it's rejected out of hand in spite of the poet's obvious hypersensitivity to criticism. Whereupon it marches straight to a vanity publisher, copies are printed in plain wraps with alarming economy, and the undiscovered poet distributes them, lovingly signed and inscribed, to hapless friends and relatives.

In this sense, of course, poetry doesn't sell, and booksellers should give it a wide berth. But there are enough high spots out there (some of them astronomically high) that payoffs can happen with regularity. As always, the trick is to know what to pick up and what to leave on the shelf.

Unfortunately, it's not always easy with poetry. There are flashpoints, yes, but more often than not they aren't in the visible spectrum. Poetry books frequently have a dull, ho-hum appearance, and opening them up doesn't help. Also, lots of them are self-published - a not overly fetching bookselling state to be in. In all, they don't ordinarily display attributes that leap. It helps to know specific poets to look for (and a complete list of U.S. Poet Laureates I've put at the end of the article is a good place to start) but I know how much you guys like to memorize stuff. Isn't there an easier way?

I think so.

Since poetry is both short and often formatted (in short, newspaper-like lines) so that a good number of words can be grabbed at a glance, it can usually be evaluated very quickly. And, the more you read, the better you'll be able to do it. Look at this poem:

An average joe comes in
and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries.

I wait for him to pay before I start cooking.
He pays.
He ain't no average joe.

The grill is just big enough for ten rows of three.
I slap the burgers down
throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier
and they pop pop spit spit ...
pass ...
The counter girls laugh.
I concentrate.
It is the crucial point-
they are ready for the cheese:
my fingers shake as I tear off slices
toss them on the burgers/fries done/dump/
refill buckets/burgers ready/flip into buns/
beat that melting cheese/wrap burgers in plastic/
into paper bags/ fries done/dump/fill thirty bags/
bring them to the counter/wipe sweat on sleeve
and smile at the counter girls.
I puff my chest out and bellow:
"Thirty cheeseburgers, thirty fries!"
They look at me funny.
I grab a handful of ice, toss it in my mouth
do a little dance and walk back to the grill.
Pressure, responsibility, success,
thirty cheeseburgers, thirty fries.

Jim Daniels, from Places/Everyone