In my second year of grad school at Yale, I made a faux pas, which I still regret. On learning that a couple of friends were going to be reading poetry at an event, I mused, after absent-mindedly congratulating them, "I wonder, do we need any more poetry?"
 
It was a terribly rude thing to say, and I still, twenty-five years later, regret having said it. It was philistine and awkward and unpleasant. But now I'm going to say it again. Do we need any more poetry?
 
Well -- in one sense, no. We have more than we can read already. We have not only more good poetry than we can read already, we have more great poetry. I am only now, after forty years of assiduous reading, getting around to Li Po, who stands in the Chinese poetic tradition, very roughly speaking, as Chaucer does in the English. He is not just a good poet. He is a Major Poet. An Important Poet. He is an amazing poet.
 
And there's plenty more where he came from. The shelf life of poetry, if it has one, has not yet been reached in historical time. There are people who won't read an old poem, and I don't really know what to do for them. Someone who thinks Shakespeare beyond his sell date is someone I probably just can't talk to: I wouldn't know where to begin.
 
But beyond that, whole new literatures have been unearthed in my lifetime, and translated into English. I have on my shelves a book I picked up free, some thirty years ago. It's a translation of what I'm assured is -- and believe to be -- a great classic of Vietnamese poetry. It's become something of a memento mori, for me, because I have gradually become aware that I will never read it. Not because I don't want to. Not because I won't love it when I get to it. Not because I doubt that it is in fact the great classic of a great literature. No, the reason I will never read it is very simple: it's that I will die before I get around to it. Dead as a doornail. And the Tale of Kieu will end up in a second-hand bookshop, or possibly pulped and recycled on the spot. (I'm sorry, Kieu. I didn't mean it to end like this!)
 
So: on the demand side, no. We don't need any more. What about the supply side?
 
Poetry doesn't have a general audience, any more. This is occasion for much hand wringing, and remarks on what crude barbarians we have become. Sure, I can go with that. But the fact is that written poetry only ever had a large audience for a century or two -- during the 19th Century, with a slop backwards into the late 18th and a slop forward into the early 20th -- and this was a direct consequence of technological advances that greatly increased the potential audience of poetry without much increasing the number of potential poets. To wit, advances in printing, which made it cheap to produce lots of copies, though it was still quite expensive to produce just a few.
 
The great medieval poets didn't write for a general audience: they wrote for little court circles, and counted their hand-transcribed editions in -- if they were very popular -- scores, not hundreds, of copies. The same goes for most Renaissance writers, in the early days of printing: Shakespeare's readership -- as opposed to his play audiences -- was quite small.
 
The effect of printing was to artificially preserve the small community of poets -- all the Romantic and almost all of the Victorian poets knew each other -- while their audiences grew. So there was still something similar to the small court circle: it just had a fishbowl of interested (but mute) listeners around it.
 
This highly artificial and temporary situation is what many writers now look back to nostalgically as the way things ought to be, and what many of us aspire to. We want to be known nationally. We want to be the Coleridge or the Tennyson of our times. We want lots of people to buy our books.
 
But population has exploded and technology has moved on, and a very different landscape has appeared. There are not, now, a score of good poets in a generation. There are thousands of them. Bad news if you want to be Tennyson, and have graduate students write dissertations about your poetry a hundred years from now. Because let me tell it to you straight: there are not going to be any more Tennysons. Not ever again.
 
English poetry has shattered into a thousand little circles: and that's not because there are no good poets any more, but because there are scads of them. There are going to John Ashberrys for the foreseeable future, because academics grind on regardless -- the exact counterpart of the medieval monasteries, producing their Lydgates -- but Tennysons and fishbowl audiences are gone.
 
This is a good thing. Because those mute audiences didn't want to be mute. And now when you find a poet as good as Tennyson -- it takes more digging, I admit, than it did when there was a desperate scramble to catch hold of the single national microphone, but it's still quite doable -- when you find your Tennyson, you can strike up a correspondence with her. She'll probably even read your poetry in return, if you ask nicely. This may be a hard time for poetic egos, but it's a wonderful time for poetry.
 
So once again, we are writing in small circles. We are publishing our poems in human-scale numbers: editions of a dozen or a hundred copies. We are talking to each other in poetry.
 
Look at it this way. In Chaucer's time, in all of England, how many young men or women were there who could even conceivably get a shot at airtime for their poetry? Who might get a chance to read their poems at a royal or noble court? A few hundred, tops: dependents of great houses; monks in some of the great monasteries; members of the royal or noble families themselves. There just weren't very many potential poets. Probably a number on the same order of magnitude as, say, the number of poetry bloggers in Cleveland today.
 
You may think that modern culture is inimical to poetry: that we are so busy truckling to capitalism and so bombarded with entertainments and so ignorant of our traditions that not many of these potential poets will ever write poems, and far fewer of those will write good ones. And I may agree with you.
 
But even if you think it's a hundred times unlikelier for a potential poet to become a good poet nowadays, when the pool of potential producers of English poetry has gone from a few hundred people to hundreds of millions of people -- as it has -- you're still looking at a generation with some thousands of Chaucers in it. Not hundreds: thousands. (Do the math, if that's your sort of thing.)
 
There is simply no way that we could, or should, pare that number down to the small literary circles that used to make literary history. There will be no more Tennysons, because we are awash in Tennysons. There are half a dozen poets in my blogroll that I think are that good. Odds are they won't be in the Norton Anthology in the year 2050: those slots will be taken, as they are now, by the pets of academia -- good poets, some of them, no doubt: but to call them the good poets of the early 21st Century is simply delusionary.
 
It doesn't work that way anymore. The floodgates are open, and we're swimming in poetry. If you want to be a literary name, that's distressing. If you want to make a living by selling your poetry, God help you. But if you just want to read and write poetry, it's marvelous.

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Dale Favier has taught poetry, chopped vegetables, and written software for a living. Currently he works half-time as a massage therapist and half-time running a database for a non-profit in Portland, Oregon. He is a Buddhist, in the Tibetan tradition. He writes about meditation and poetry, and whatever ever else he may be interested in at the moment, at Mole.

He has an M.Phil. in English Literature from Yale, but he never wrote much poetry until he began blogging, a few years ago, and fell in with bad companions. With them he eventually brought out an anthology, Brilliant Coroners. His poems have also appeared in Qarrtsiluni and The Ouroborus Review. His first chapbook, Opening the World, will be coming out next year from Pindrop Press.

As practicing poets, we work hard on our craft. As we toil, sweat, and agonize over our words, we can all take ourselves and our writing too seriously at times. So this month, we're going to give ourselves a much needed break and play a party game -- one we found in The Everything Writing Poetry Book: A practical guide to style, structure, form, and expression by Tina D. Eliopulos and Todd Scott Moffett.
 
These kind authors introduced us to a poetry form we'd never heard of, and we hope it will be new to you too. It's called "Bouts-Rim�s," and it started as a party game. Literally translated from the French, it means "end rhymes," though the form doesn't have to include rhymes at all.
 
The rules are simple. The foundation of a Bouts-Rim�s poem is a list of words supplied to you by someone else. You must place these words at the end of each line of your poem. For example, if the word list supplied to you is suddenly, mouth, gut, eye, solar, in, more, indifference, cheek, then the first line of the poem must end with suddenly, the second line with mouth, and so on down the list. Given that list of words, you could end up with a nine-line poem like this:
 
All of a sudden passion suddenly
slaps you across the mouth
punches you in the gut
spits right in your eye
then cuts left of your solar
plexus and you take it in
and you ask for more
and your indifference
turns its other cheek
 
One of the rules of the game is that you can't change the spelling of the words on your list - for instance, if you're give the word light, you can't alter it to lights or lightly. However, you are free to use the word as a noun ("I turned off the light"), a verb ("He'll light / the fire"), or an adjective ("She has a light / touch")."

Following is a list of nineteen words we chose completely at random from a number of different poetry books by poets who have widely divergent styles, and therefore, widely divergent vocabularies. We simply closed our eyes, opened the books to any page and pointed, so we refuse to take any responsibility for these words:

1. stragglers
2. clink
3. vulgar
4. reading
5. sundown
6. number
7. apricots
8. solar
9. wearing
10. park
11. California
12. sandwiches
13. ears
14. gray
15. walk
16. felonies
17. cadence
18. inconceivable
19. episode
20. ?

Your challenge this month is to write a 20-line poem using the list of words given as the ending words on each of your lines, i.e., stragglers should end line one, clink should end line two, etc. You can't change the form of the word, but feel free to get creative with parts of speech (use the word as a noun, verb, adjective, etc.). What about the twentieth and final word? That one's up to you. It can be any word you like or one you select at random. Just open any book like we did, close your eyes and point.
 
Since this is a party game, have fun. Don't take the exercise too seriously. Be spontaneous. Strange things can happen when you let loose, and when complete control over the final product has been taken out of your hands by someone else's list of words that you otherwise might never have thought to use. Think about children's marvelous ability to be creative and free when they're playing games.
 
You just might surprise yourself with how much you like the work that comes out of this exercise. While you may not end up with the perfect, finished poem, chances are good that you'll get at least a line or two that you can use again.
 
If you're a member of a regular poetry-writing group, feel free to play this game at your next meeting. Just have everyone make their own list of words, and then pass them to another member of the group. It's a great game to get your party started!

Sage Cohen is the author of Writing the Life Poetic: An Invitation to Read and Write Poetry (Writer's Digest Books, March 2009) and the poetry collection Like the Heart, the World. She writes four monthly columns about the craft and business of writing and serves as poetry editor for VoiceCatcher 4. Sage has been awarded first prize in the Ghost Road Press poetry contest and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She offers a range of classes and services for poets and writers. Learn more at sagesaidso.com and writingthelifepoetic.com.

When I squint my eyes
I can make your hair a single star  

points breaking around your head. 
Winter breaking inside of me.  

A cape of discarded color at my feet.
I talk the dirt out of my mouth.  

I am no expert. I shine my dim light  
and you're out there breaking glass.

I filled a whole notebook with you once  
but still you were missing. There are pink stars

on the red formica table. The mattress  
a pulse of argument. Next year

New York will be different  
but tonight the moon is a white spine  

and a small candle burns
our shadows into the wall.

In my last column, I wrote about the integration of roles. The concepts of integrating your role as a poet with other life roles. I suggested that compartmentalizing your life may keep you from tapping into the poetry juice that's all around you. The key to integration is to see ourselves as a mix of roles, characteristics, and talents and to allow these to live together instead of segmenting them to proper place and time.
 
When I speak about blending the elements of my life I'm literally considering how the various aspects of life, relationships, work, play, and interests inform my writing. The application of blending in the craft of writing starts by manifesting experiences into words, phrases, lines, and ultimately, whole poems.
 
A sure way to see this materialize is to do a free writing exercise. Start with blank paper. Describe what you were thinking or doing today, before you started to write. Then, work backwards, what happened before that, where were you, who was there, what did you say? Continue on, be specific and detailed.
 
What were your surroundings, how did they look, smell, feel? What about right before that? Write until you feel a natural stopping place. Read it once to yourself and a second time out loud. Now, go back and circle words, lines, phrases, or make notes in the margins. You've written about what you know and now have words that can be shaped into something else.
 
Here's a short example. Last night rain filled the birdbath out back. It is cold this morning; the robins bathe anyway. Four are in the bath, one on the lilac branch overhead and one among leaves on the ground. They are plump with magnificent orange-red breasts. Their splashing reminds me of joy and a time when my kids were babies. Earlier, after making the bed, sheets cold since you left for work, I moved past our huge front window just in time to see crows on the front lawn. Then, in slow motion I caught sight of one perfect white crow gliding above the others. Can this be real? I've never seen a white crow. I must call the Audubon and ask. Head to the phone as it starts ringing; pick up, a recorded political message. I race back to the front window, white crow gone.
 
I have several themes in this free writing that can lead to at least one poem. I can expand, embellish, remove, twist, or keep it straightforward. I can play with tenses, create sensory cues, make it about nature, love, or family. I can break a sentence into parts - shape lines, omit extras. This short piece draws from the images of a single morning.
 
Imagine yourself blending the elements of everyday life. Don't be shy about exploring where these elements may take you.

* * * * *

Toni Partington lives and works in Vancouver, WA. Her poetry has appeared in the NW Women's Journal, the Anthology of the River Poets' Society, VoiceCatcher 3, the Cascade Journal, and others. Toni's other work includes career/life coaching, editing services for new and emerging writers, and grant writing. This winter she joined the editorial collective for VoiceCatcher 4. She holds a BA in Social Work and an MA focused on Literature and Literary Editing.  Before that, Toni was a high-school drop out, pregnant and then married at age 16 whose life came faster than it should have and toughened her into a self-described survivor. Today, her circle includes family, friends, dogs and poets, not in any particular order.
Blog: www.poettone.blogspot.com
Email: tpartington@earthlink.net

By Shawn Sorensen

Hello everyone! The news swirling around (and up) is that more and more people are submitting work. Excellent! Also, more people are getting recognized. Stupendous!

A few acquaintances of mine just won in the prestigious Oregon State Poetry Association Fall 2009 contest (open to writers nationally), which I'll highlight in my next column.

Plus, yours truly was published in the summer 2009 edition of Wild Goose Poetry Review (www.wildgoosepoetryreview.com), a publication I had recommended in an earlier column. Add a comment to this article and let us know where you're submitting and/or getting published!

It's heartening to hear about so many people submitting, even though the odds are usually against getting published. Journals, magazines and contests often get inundated with submissions, which is why you should take as a compliment any word you hear back from them.

If you get a standard (or 'form-letter') rejection notice, consider it a positive development in that: one, they're read your work; and two, they're an organized outfit. If you receive a personal rejection note, consider this a very good sign because it's likely to mean that the editors read your work closely, appreciated something about it and may have even come close to publishing it.

In other words, there are many smaller victories on the road to getting published.

Here are some submission possibilities to explore this time around:

Print Journal: Burnside Review
Portland's own! This unusual print publication (approximately 80 pgs. in a 6" X 6" nicely bound journal) allows the Northwest literary scene to shine brightly. Published work is open in theme and imagery. Some would say the Burnside Review is "edgier than most", but I would say "more unafraid" -- and responsive to all the work they receive. Their web site -- www.burnsidereview.org -- has sample poems. Burnside Review is published every 9 months and can be found at Powell's bookstore.

Online Journal: Stickman Review
I've been reading Stickman Review for years, admiring the poems that create vivid atmospheres, many with nicely-accomplished metaphor work. Check out their web site, www.stickmanreview.com, for all the details. They publish every few months, are open to new poets, don't mind simultaneous submissions and will pay you if you get published. 

Contest: 2010 Writers-Editors Network 27th Annual International Writing Competition
An annual contest awards three cash prizes and several Honorable Mention certificates. Well-run and open to new and more experienced poets alike. Accepts poetry of any form with an entry fee of $3-$5 per submitted piece. See www.writers-editors.com for more details. Deadline is March 15th, 2010.   

Get submitting and let me know about any victories large or small.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room.

"Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.

"When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." -- The Velveteen Rabbit
 
When I'm not writing poems, I'm writing marketing content; that's my day job. For the past 10+ years, I've been paid to align business and consumer interests through captivating communications.

After a recent conversation with Noah Briar, genius of social and technology trends, about the potential of marketing as a peace-process intervention, I've been wondering if my poetry exists primarily as a marketing tool designed to convince me of my own legitimacy--as a person and as a writer.

Because the truth is, no matter what my resume (or my mother for that matter) may say about my accomplishments and worth, learning to believe in the Sage brand has taken nearly 18 years of thoroughly documented reflection--the most enduring multi-media campaign of my life.

Jen Lemen, one of the leading sources of inspiration and hope in the blogisphere, made me laugh out loud when she described the extrovert's process of needing to speak everything first before writing it, which she suggested was far less efficient than the introvert's process of moving directly from thought to paper or screen.

I suppose my process has been somewhat the reverse of Jen's, although I'm still not sold on its efficiencies. Most of the time, I need to write something down in order to know what I think. After I've seen the word-after-word-after-word manifest as an actual line in relationship to other lines in a poem (or essay), my thoughts find a way to establish their root system in me. Eventually, they come through in conversation.

If we are to consider our poems as our one-woman or one-man campaigns to get a little closer to who we are and what life on earth is all about, then maybe marketing and poetry aren't as disparate as I once thought they were. Both seem to be oversized mirrors that offer a way to more intimately know and reflect back the world through language.

Yet, poetry and marketing have different core objectives. Marketing is a forum for convincing and selling, and poetry is a forum for exposing the bare bulb of truth. The arduous work of writing poems loves our edges off. Poems soften us into who we are and who we are becoming. They demand of us something more authentic and complete than most other experiences in our lives.

A poem that doesn't enter the "real" space is not likely to connect with others or even resonate with the person who has written it. Poems hold us to a higher standard by which we become more visible to ourselves and more authentic in that unveiling. It is only by writing ourselves through this poetry prism that we arrive at the threadbare intimacies of "real."