fallen verses

Tiel has been posting a short series about what it means to be a professional poet. (1, 2, 3) In some respects, this is a simple concept. If you make x% of your income from poetry, you are a professional poet. X can vary, I suppose, but 20% would be a minimum I would give it. A lot of her point seems to revolve around dedication. She is dedicated, to her own work and to the work of others. This is, without doubt, a commendable attitude to have, but one I disagree with. Professional means money, means income. I make zero dollars from poetry. I consider myself a poet, it’s my nature to interact with the world as a poet. But I am an IT professional. The distinction between who you are and what you do is where being a professional is defined. The most fortunate people are probably those for whom the definitions significantly match, or overlap, but I don’t think it is wise to mix those two standards: one is about money, the other is about the self.

Tony Hoagland’s essay, “Three Tenors,” from Real Sofistikashun (Amazon link), largely discusses the poetic voices of three poets, but ends with some thoughts on point:

“Profession” has always seemed like a misleading, even laughable word for poetry - not just because it suggests that the economy has a Poetry Sector, but also because it suggests that poetry is masterable, that poetry itself is stable , that some person can possess poetr, and that others don’t. Though a skilled craftsperson can create a facsimile of a real poem, a skilled reader can spot the counterfeit in a minute, and the word that reader might use to describe the counterfeit might be “professional.” The making of poems is so mysteriously tied up with not-knowing that in some sense the poet is a perpetual amateur, a stranger to the art, subject to ineptitude, failure, falsity, mediocrity, and repetitiveness. Even to remember what a poem IS seems impossible for a poet - one suspects that professors, or professionals, rarely have that problem.