The first time I was published, it was a poetry piece in a compilation with other writers. I've frequently thought about doing a book of my work, but I'm not sure. What's the market for this? Does anyone else feel that poetry is becoming a lost art?
I have heard that it's a really hard sell, whether you go traditional or self-publish. Personally, I don't get poetry at all. Much of it sacrifices clarity to fit an arbitrary rhythm, and I value clarity in writing above pretty much everything else.
I like poetry, sometimes. As for the market... https://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/may/24/salt-poetry-market-slump – not rosy.
I agree that sacrificing clarity is one of the biggest problems with poetry nowadays. I wouldn't say poetry is dead... it just needs a nice make-over.
Pretty much this. This is where poetry is now, and quite frankly I wish it were presented as poetry rather than song. This kind of links nicely with my recent post about under-singing in the Not Happy thread.
There is a small market for poetry, but I don't think it's as popular as it once was. Part of it is a lack of interest from the general public, which in turn dictates funding for magazines and academic posts. But don't let that stop you. Keep writing what you love and submit it.
Perhaps lack of interest is due to the way poetry has evolved and appeal to the average reader (or the great unwashed) has diminished. Popular poets like Pam Ayres don't seem to have a problem selling their books. Or the other option is collections of poems dedicated to flowers, dealing with bereavement, depression, age, Mother, etc etc. The mass market are more likely to buy those as presents than a general poetry book. (IMHO) Does anyone else feel that poetry is becoming a lost art? Not so much becoming a lost art more like modern poetry seems to have lost its way. You could always self-publish or just focus on getting your work published in literary journals.
I'm going to blunt, There is a whole group of people (Teens and younger writers mainly) who think poetry is hormone-fueled Abstract writing that is vomited onto a page that was perfectly happy being blank. - Poetry should be as clear and as understandable as prose; However, Poetry pays attention to -only to name a few- Meter, sound, Musical devices, imagery, Metaphor, puns, and Rhetoric. Also, Narrative poetry -which I suppose I'd classify myself as a writer in- pays attention to same narrative devices that prose/novel writers use on top of poetics.
I love poetry provided a) I can understand it and b) the rhythm of the language sings to me. If these criteria are not met, it's worthless to me. For some reason, the poets I like all died decades ago. I regularly read the poems in the New Yorker, but they almost never impress me. The only poet I can think of who's still alive and I like is Rodney Jones (alas, Jim Harrison died quite recently). Here's an example of Jones: Channel, by Rodney Jones It had come up from the night depth of the lake to bend and chatter the rod as it lunged under the boat, and now it flopped in the net until I had it in a slippery scrimmage on the aluminum floor: suave as a satyr's haunch, but Appaloosaed with dots, treble-spined, and whiskered like Confucius. And now, as I pliered open the jaws and took the hook it had taken, it made something like a bee-buzz. From deep in its mouth that was white as a Ping-Pong ball, it made something like absolution; and then it curled in the icebox, whacking the beers with its tail; and still, there it was. I do not like to hurt a thing alive, even a catfish, so slow to perish not even Saint Thomas Aquinas or W. C. Fields could raise the eloquence to free its killer of guilt. In Florida, catfish walk. Nailed to an oak, skin peeled like wallpaper, catfish won't stop talking with twitches. But what they say improves on guilt. You have to have waited many nights, with your face blackening from the smoke of burning tires, and shined your light on a belled rod ringing over stones and going fast into the river, to know that their lives mean as much as your life. And what is your life? The bottom of a shallow place? Magnificences?You hold them carefully. You listen, and they say your name in ancient Catfish.