The Seven Types of Poetry

The simplest and least useful way to think of poetry is in two types: good and bad. Yet for those willing to look deeper, there is much to be gained from attempting to understand and appreciate the wide and varied landscape of contemporary poetry.

One of the mistakes of the beginning poet is to confuse popularity with quality; one of the mistakes of the journeyman is to confuse their own particular taste with quality. Most mature is to acknowledge the existence of popularity, quality, and one’s own taste as three distinct and independent factors.

This gives rise to not two or three but actually seven different types of poetry, as shown in the following diagram:


Let’s look first at the outer extremes:

Fluff  —  that which is popular, but you can’t guess why — being neither of high quality nor suited to your taste. These poems are generally dismissed with a, “What is the (poetry) world coming to?” roll of the eyes.

Guilty Pleasures  —  those poems or poets that are of your particular taste, but which you must acknowledge aren’t exactly of the highest quality, nor are they widely known. Think of the poetic equivalent of a boy band you adored as a tween.

The Arcane  —  You will come across, from time to time, those works of high quality which are neither your taste nor widely known. They give you pause, if only for a moment of head-scratching.

Next, at the intersection of two different traits:

Distractions  —  Simply put, that which lacks quality is a distraction to the ever-evolving poet-reader. Even though it may suit your taste, and others know about it as well (making it a less-guilty pleasure), it will not necessarily teach you much about writing, or leave you changed for having read it.

Discoveries  —  That which is not yet popular, but both suits your taste and has recognisable quality, presents an opportunity for discovery. For every school and taste around there are numerous discoveries yet to be made in the plentiful marketplace of poetry. Doing so can make you feel like you have just won the lottery.

Challenges  —  It takes a mature attitude to acknowledge that quality works exist, which are reasonably well-known, and which one simply does not like. It is just as valid for them to exist as it is for you to dislike them. Yet approached with an open mind, these can be seen as challenges. That which is outside your sphere of taste provokes you, perhaps even calls into question your very definition of poetry. Taken with an open mind, though, this can lead to growth.

Finally, in the dead centre are those poets who are producing work of recognisable quality, which you like, and who have achieved the seemingly impossible — recognition for that good work. These become our heroes — the poets we look up to, admire, and emulate.

As you can see, the actual poems and poets an individual would choose to fill in these seven spaces will vary considerably from person to person. One reader’s hero could well be another’s challenge. Yet we needn’t be fractious about it.

Poetry is largely a matter of taste. The proliferation of awards, critics, and publications might mistakenly lead us to believe otherwise. In the end, though, they operate via gatekeepers who are attempting to bolster a mix of their own discoveries and their heroes upward along the axis of popularity. This is why they make for a poor, or at least inconsistent, marker of individual progress.

Better to revisit one’s heroes for inspiration, rise to the challenges of difficult new work, and make exciting discoveries of ones own. Read widely with these intentions in mind, and you will soon be running circles around your peers.

Thoughts? Comments? Respond at Huffington Post.

Grandma’s Thoughts on Poetry and the Self

My grandmother sent me this excerpt from Robert Johnson’s Owning Your Own Shadow:

To reconcile so great a span as heaven and earth is beyond our ordinary way of seeing: generally, two irreconcilable opposites (guilt and need) make neurotic structures in us. It takes a poet [underlined in pen] — or the poet in us — to overlap such a pair and make a sublime whole of them. Who but Shakespeare could bring the airy nothing of heaven into consonance with the heavy reality of earth and give it a form that ordinary humans can understand? Who but the Shakespeare in yourself?

Take this and take that — and make a mandorla of them.

In your own poetic struggles you may make only the tiniest sliver of a mandorla that will vanish a few minutes later. Where is the inspiration of yesterday that was so thrilling? But if you repeat this often enough it will become the permanent base of your functioning. It can be hoped that by the end of your life the two circles will be entirely overlapped. When one is truly a citizen of both worlds, heaven and earth are no longer antagonistic to each other. Finally one sees that there was only one circle all the time. This is the true fulfillment of the Christian goal, the beatific vision so prized in medieval theology. The two circles were only the optical illusion of our capacity — and need — to see things double.

The accompanying note says the opening lines of my poem, Berkeley Hills Exodus, exemplified this to her. The poem is, indeed, all about liminal space, but the symbol of the mandorla was entirely new to me. It is a rare privilege for me to be part of a family that thinks deeply about poetry and life in this way — and has been doing so for generations.