…by the natures of those who choose to follow my site. It seems counterintuitive. Once I see what they do, or write, I wonder: how can they possible find anything of little enough value here to follow. I write “little enough” and not “great enough” because I have, at certain times, an upside-down feeling when I visit certain sites. As though everything that is right is called by the name “wrong;” and everything that is wrong is called by the name “right.” What could such a man, living in such a world, possibly see in any world of mine?
Randomness. Random clicks are the only explanation I can visualize. Little has changed since the last time I picked up a copy of “Poetry” magazine. Or any similar publication or website. I think it was 1984. And as I have said in past posts. There is, in fact, no place for poetry to go but up. It has gotten sufficiently ugly, that there appears no room for it to become any more so. Hideous and twisted. Poetic orthodoxy is the orthodoxy of the unorthodox–which, in an of itself–is not a disaster. The phenomenon strikes me as being accompanied by a an overarching desire to see only the ugly; and furthermore, to see it in the most ugly way possible, and then to express it as such.
This has been going on for many, many decades now, and although there exists a groundswell of Romantic Realism, those that, young or old, are not part of that movement, seem not to tire of it. It seems to go on and on this way. Common sense seems to suggest that even the most fervent purveyors of ugliness would eventually tire of the ruse of it. The very falsity of it.
It does strike me as the very heart of falsehood. “The spirit of error,” if I may borrow a quote.