Hyper-Poetic Discourse

The other day, he asked me, “What’s her writing like?” And without hesitation, I said, “She’s hyper-poetic.” Then he replied with, “Yeah, she’s like that. She is a poet, after all.” The two of us then fell into silence, reading manuscripts written by people who don’t have the talent of patience and revision- people who flock to writing believing it is the easiest way to fulfill the American Dream of wealth and fame.

She’s hyper-poetic, I said, mainly because it’s true, but partly because I don’t like her and he knows. I don’t like her, but I don’t hate her. She irritates me with her bad attitude towards men. Her reverse sexism drives me crazy. Her intolerance for other’s ideas and pleasures are fingernails sharpened to a point, clawing down a chalkboard.

She irritates me with her bad attitude towards men. Her reverse sexism drives me crazy. I still run into her at times, and she’s nice and we talk about classes and suggest different books to one another. And then one of us laughs and says, “Maybe I’ll get to that book this summer- I don’t have a lot of time to read, what with all the reading I have to do.” It’s funny- the plight of the English major, we both realize.

I still run into her at times, and she’s nice and we talk about classes. I said she was hyper-poetic partly because I don’t like her and he knows. I said it to be non-committal, rather than negatively criticize her work and appear petty and insolent. I said it because she’s had a couple of months to grow, and I have no right to criticize her since I have not seen her stories lately. I said it because I’m growing and learning, just like her.

I said it to be non-committal. I wanted it to be a neutral comment, one that was neither bad nor good but also filled with truth. I wanted it to be a comment that wouldn’t offend her. But then, today, I realized that I hate hyper-poetic New Yorkeresque drivel. It’s not all bad, like Baxter’s The Feast of Love, but most of the works infused with hyper-poetry have a boring read-that-seen-that style that increases the more it’s done.

I hate hyper-poetic writing. It leaves a bad taste in my brain. I love poetry. I love short and long fiction. I even love the Germanic texts I’ve had to read in my tortuous German courses. I hate hyper-poetic short stories and novels.

Hyper-poetic writing leaves a bad taste in my brain. In my mind, I have James Joyce and H.D. – modernist authors who can hardly compare to the hyper-poetic writers of today- on one side of the rink, and Faulkner and Hemmingway on the other side. Faulkner and Hemmingway win every time because their works are honest and clear, not bogged down with poetically pretentious writing styles that confuse, irritate, and remove emotions from the readers.

James Joyce and H.D. both are poetically pretentious in their works. But they knew what they were doing- they had a purpose in mind when writing the way they did. The New Yorker endorsed writers of today don’t have a purpose in mind- other than being endorsed by The New Yorker and hopefully selling millions of copies of their latest hyper-poetic drivel of a novel. The non-endorsed hyper-poetic writers of today are lost. They write it because it sounds intelligent to a culture that believes The New Yorker is art, is hip, is talent.

The non-endorsed hyper-poetic writers want to be endorsed. They want The New Yorker to say to its subscibers, “Read this, buy millions of copies. It’s hyper-poetic, and therefore you should read it.”