Censorship and Poetry

I came across the site G+ Poets when I set up this blog, and joined in various posts, such as 'Critique Requested' and 'Discussion.' It was diverting, and there were a few poems, perhaps one in a hundred, that in fact were deserving of journal publication. In those cases, it was useful to be able to comment directly with the poet and discuss thier work.

Under the 'Weekend Showcase' tab, writers can post two poems for feedback/comment and the obligatory "+1" which works in a way not dissimilar to a Facebook "like."

I posted two poems, overtly political pieces related to recent events in Sochi and Ukraine. They had been posted only for a few minutes and people were responding to them in a positive way. Shortly thereafter, one of the site's Moderators posted that they were taking the poems down, as they violated the community's PG guidelines.

The objection, apparently, was to the name of the Russian political movement, Pussy Riot, and to the now homogeneous, relatively innocuous word, 'bullshit.' Their comment began, "We really wish poets would write more political poems and stop navel-gazing, but..." 

My response was that they could, according to their rules, print the name of those ultra rightwing nitwits, the Tea Party, all day long, but not the name of the Russian dissonants, Pussy Riot, all in the name of Mom-and-Pop values. PR's history of civil disobedience can be accessed through any media, and it's the nature of political activism that promotes uncomfortable viewing or, in this case, reading.

In my view the Moderators are themselves drifting into the realm of censorship territory currently associated with recent Russian activities in Ukraine, so it was somewhat ironic that they should object to real-time poetry events couched in directly provocative language.

On the same day, one of the Moderators, under a 'favorite poem' tab, promoted a piece by a poet with whom I wasn't familiar, but who is widely read in the United States. The Moderator stated that this poet's writing changed the direction of his his own work. Naturally, I was intrigued initially, but then disappointed. For me, the poem was grammatically awkward, but not in a way that was meant to impart a style of language experiment. The ending, wherein the poet describes herself in the sex act, had a sniggering, juvenile pretension about it that I found unintentionally comic.

While everyone has their own reading preferences, and my own in the case above are clearly out of sync with a wider reading public, there is a further point to be made. It's not unusual to find poems posted there that have a whispery, soft porn vibe (including the poem mentioned above), and these are accepted with a nod of acquiescence. 

Apart from being poorly crafted, such poems pander to readers who imagine that such writing promotes self-discovery, that is to say, "find" one's self. In fact, they are cheesy, self-indulgent exercises that serve no credible purpose in respect of poem-making. If you're running a site as though it was a Disney film set, pink-ribboned and choreographed to please within a remarkably narrow bandwidth, care should be taken to ensure that the cast and crew aren't blowing weed and having wild monkey sex between takes in the back room.

When I weigh-up such pretensions against the activities of people who are beaten and jailed because their views are at odds with those in power, I know where my loyalties lie.
 
I suppose it's just as well that I didn't post the poem about sex-worker trafficking in Europe.

I've now left the community.

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 5

Objet D’Art, Miscellany and Views
 

A soapstone buddha
paperweight lends gravitas to loose-leaf
sketches of the doors
and windows, ha-ha,
the folly and the ruined relief,
the inkwash of ivy and hellebores.
 
A bronze figurine,
French, late 18c, crowds the lesser lots,
a nervy line of
burnished nicotine.
Next, engravings of sans-culottes
razing the Bastille, etched with smoke above;
 
plate-silver service,
a ‘modern’ atlas coloured with empire,
memoirs of Paris
between the wars, kisscurl
sweethearts in porcelain, sire
stock paintings, a pamphlet, “Against Hubris”—
 
your shoes, the shell pink
satin with the Deco heels, the tissue
wrappings, reminded
me of New Year’s, zinc
bathtub cooling fizz, the horseshoe
of roses, the wishing star love blinded.
 
A stranger took your
diaries. The secret nod, a sign for sign
and all was his. The
light rays bend in pure
white ribbons through the room. A fine
dust shrugs its weasel anonymity.