contemporary poetry

Hmmm…what is contemporary poetry? Trying to define contemporary poetry is problematic for me on several levels. First, the word “contemporary” is tricky. How old can the poetry be to not be contemporary or, in other words, how new should it be? I’ve always thought that poetry written in the 60s is contemporary, but considering that it is now 2007, some of that poetry would be about 50. In other words, if that poetry were a human, it would be a little over middle-aged; if it were a dog, it’d be dead.
Also, contemporary poetry is different depending on the poet. This, I think, is one of the keys to being contemporary, in a tricky kind of way. In order to be contemporary, the style of the poetry probably does not conform to a strict rhyme or rhythm. Or, if it does, it probably does in a cagey and/or satirical sort of way.
Another possible hallmark of contemporary poetry, not that this is exclusive to contemporary poetry, seems to be that contemporary poetry makes the reader work a little harder to extract meaning. Even in poetry that we think is accessible, like that of Billy Collins, upon second or third or fourth readings, there are levels of meaning and connection that are revealed.
Then, there are the poems of Michael Earl Craig and Sandra Alcosser, difficult for other reasons: Craig, because he seems “normal” but then decidedly is not; and, Alcosser, because I feel the need to scrub her humid, suffocating imagery out of my brain after it has been soaked in her sexually twisted bayou.
I liked all of the poets this week (Oliver, Stafford, Plath, Snyder). I probably haven’t read enough of their work to say this, but I found myself playing the Sesame Street Game: “One of these things is not like the other; one of these things just isn’t the same.” And, unfortunately for her, it seems that Plath is the odd man out. Komunyakaa may also join Sylvia in being kicked off Poetry Survivor, but for different reasons. Oliver, Stafford and Snyder all seem to find a restorative awe in nature. This is evident in “Song of the Builders” by Mary Oliver and also in a round-a-bout sort of way in “Singapore.” “Singapore,” along with “Ask Me” by William Stafford, just happen to be two of my favorite poems ever, by the way. Gary Snyder’s “Hay for Horses” and “For All” seem to express a similar sentiment about nature.
I just don’t see this happening with Sylvia Plath. In fact, if we were to take “For All” by Gary Snyder and put a Plath simplistic and probably grossly unfair spin on it, I think it may go a little something like this.

For All
Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.

For Daddy
Ah to be almost dead
On any foggy day
Cutting my thumb
Barefoot, toe big as a Frisco Seal
Holding pills, gas oven on
No sunshine, hot ice in my brain
Overcast England
….
I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to my daddy
Of the bastard with the Mein Kampf look
And to the love of the rack and the screw
One pretty red heart
Bitten in two
Under my gauze Ku Klux Klan babushka
With my red hair, dirty girl, thumb stump, I rise and eat men like air.

Above all, the other three poets seem hopeful, and this hopefulness seems connected to the inspiring and awesome scope of nature. Sylvia – light on the hopeful, heavy on the hopeless. Sylvia, the tribe has spoken.